Chasing the Fall
by MetalWolfMelody
Summary: Chase was always the quirky smile, the comic relief, the handsome face to soothe the daily toils. When Wilson detects a fracture in the normally cheerful visage of the charming doctor, he sets out to discover just what's tearing Chase apart. But what Wilson finds has dire consequences, not just for his friendship with House, but the safety of Chase's life.
1. Chapter 1

Wilson sat alone in his office, staring at the tower of papers piled before him. Night had fallen more quickly than he had anticipated, but the lights of the hospital maintained a pleasant façade that simulated normal waking hours. Though the halls and patient rooms were dimmed once the sun sank below the horizon, there were always those bright fluorescent beams shining down on polished tiled floors, bathing everything in a faint shade of sterile blue.

Despite the nature of the lighting in his workplace, Wilson needed no clock to assure him that it was much later than he normally worked. He had been at the office for about twelve hours, and was quickly reaching his limits. This wasn't the only long night that he had pulled in the week, and it seemed that night after night without sleep was sapping his energy with an unrivaled intensity.

Though his eyelids were threatening to slip shut, he couldn't help but be grateful as he reached for another patient file. There were only a few left for him to complete, and with a few more signatures scrawled across carbon paper, he could store hours of work away and head for his home. The thought of his bed gave him the extra motivation that he needed, and he reached for the coffee cup sitting on the edge of his desk. It was at that very moment that the obnoxious ringing of his cell phone shattered his serene world, causing him to nearly knock the paper cup on its side.

"Dammit" he cursed beneath his breath, scowling as he groped the piles of paper to find the source of the noise. At this time of night, it had to be House. That bastard was probably sitting on the couch, watching TV, and drinking scotch, all without a care in the world. Wilson couldn't remember the last time that House had stayed late to work on patient files, or to work at all. That duty always weighed on his fellows, all of whom were often stuck working full nights in the lab while House wasted his night with rich foods and alcohol.

After a few more moments of searching, Wilson finally found the cell beneath a few stray papers, and checked the caller ID that flashed across the small screen. Surprise filled him as he read the small letters, the scowl dropping from his face instantly as he read the name ' _R. Chase_.' Without taking a moment to hesitate, Wilson flipped the phone open and brought it to the side of his face, questioning what House's employee could want so late at night.

"What did House do this time?" he asked immediately, the better part of concern washing over him. It was by mere caution that he kept the number of all House's fellows; emergencies had a tendency to crop up, especially concerning the ornery diagnostician. Yet Chase did not reply with the series of complaints concerning his employer, as Wilson had expected. There was a short breath, and then the young doctor spoke, and it seemed as though he were laboring to speak clearly.

"I'm sorry for calling so late" Chase started, his voice peaked by what Wilson could only identify as anxiety. "It sounds like you're busy, in fact, I'm sure you are. This has nothing to do with House, I was only calling to ask a personal question, but I think I'll leave you to your work for the night-"

"Don't" Wilson cut him off, abruptly halting Chase in his farewell. The oncologist leaned back in his chair, momentarily abandoning the file that he had intended to work on, figuring that this call could take precedence for the time being. Chase's voice was thick, and his speech was faltering, as though he were impaired. As far as Wilson knew, the social blond never drank outside of a few small drinks with his friends, and the first conclusion that he arrived at was that Chase was in some trouble. Now concerned, Wilson pressed the issue. "That's fine, Chase, but is there something wrong? Are you okay? Is there something I can do for you?"

More silence met his ear, the static of breath coming through the speaker pressed against his ear. The worry that had been seeded in his gut was already growing. This behavior was so atypical of the young doctor, even such a slight change of character tuned Wilson into possible trouble. Chase spoke again, his voice still thick and slurred.

"Just, can I ask you a question?"

"Anything at all" Wilson encouraged, feeling slightly on edge. As a doctor, especially dealing with cancer patients day in and day out, he was acutely aware of emotional distress, even through no more than verbal cues. This acute empathy was what led Wilson to be such a gifted oncologist and friend, and even now, that skill failed to abandon him. The stress that was inflicted in Chase's voice stung Wilson's heart as the Chase replied.

"Am I good enough? Do you think I'm good enough?" The whisper came through the phone, Chase's voice soft and pleading, as though he were begging for some sort of release.

This time it was Wilson that was stunned into silence. This was a question that had so much hidden pain, so many grief-stricken undertones. It was a question of desperation, and one that Wilson immediately constituted as a cry for help, as pitiful as it was. Already reaching for his coat, Wilson replied in the most soothing voice he could manage, one of the relaxing tones he reserved for his patients.

"Of course you're good enough, Chase. You're a brilliant doctor, and you deserve your spot on the team. Is there something going on? Did something happen at work today?" Now the phone was sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder as he slid the files into a somewhat organized pile, the remaining few getting stuffed into his briefcase. Luckily, Chase didn't seem to hear the shuffling of papers, to Wilson's relief, and just kept on talking in the same disheartened tone.

"It's not work, Wilson. Don't worry. The question was stupid anyway. Sorry for bothering your evening. See you tomorrow-"

"Wait!" Wilson cut him off, trying to hide his pressing sense of urgency. "Do you need me to come and get you from somewhere? I was just leaving from work anyway. If you need a ride home, I can give you one. You really shouldn't be driving if you've had a lot to drink-" this time, it was Chase who cut him off, the usually well-tempered voice tainted with hostility.

"I haven't been drinking, and I'm not at a bar. I'm at home. I'm sorry for bothering you. I'll see you at work tomorrow. Goodnight" he finished abruptly, and before Wilson could get another word out, the line went dead. Rolling his eyes in frustration, Wilson closed the phone, and continued to pack up his things as quickly as he could. His mind was made- he was going to go take a quick stop by Chase's place to make sure that he was alright.

Being a doctor that dealt with a fair amount of pain and suffering with each passing day, Wilson knew the sound of distress, and it was painful how hard the younger doctor had been trying to feign well-being. He had seen through the guise with the first word from Chase's mouth, and now concern had been settled deeply in his mind. Chase's apartment was only a few minutes away from his own, and Wilson knew he could spare a few extra minutes if it meant that he could ensure a coworker's good health.

Throwing the jacket that he had clutched in his hand on over his shoulders, Wilson strode purposefully out of his office and shut the door behind himself. Mentally he mapped the route that he would take to arrive at the small excursion from his usual routine.

Chase had a modest apartment, one that Wilson had been to twice before when the younger man had been having some car troubles. They had the luxury of living only a few minutes apart, which made situations such as transportation quite simple on the rare occasion a carpool became necessary. But tonight there was a darker tone to Wilson's visit, but it was still a visit that he would consider complete necessity. There was no motive behind it other than a true concern for the well-being of the normally cheerful blond.

 **Thank you so much for reading! This will be a short, multi-chapter story featuring a conflict with Chase, and a strained friendship between House and Wilson, with a few appearances from the other team members. The setting is some time towards the beginning of Season 3. Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the jacket that Wilson had wrapped around himself, he could still feel the bitterly cold fangs of winter biting his skin. It was a terribly frigid winter night, and Wilson could feel nothing except relief when the apartment door opened, letting light stream out into the entranceway, along with a gust of heat. A figure filled the doorjamb, and Wilson silently looked him over.

The normally dashing Aussie appeared to have transformed into a mere shell of his usual self. His blond hair hung down in front of his face, and his typical business attire had been downgraded to torn denim jeans and a ratty tee that clung to his form. Most striking, however, were the bloodshot eyes that stared out into the night, seemingly lifeless, cheeks still dampened by silver trails glistening across tan skin.

"God, Chase, you look awful" Wilson muttered, abstaining from a comment about the tears for Chase's dignity. The unusually insensitive comment was put forth for the sake of lightening the mood, although even Wilson could admit it was a pitiful. It was made obvious by the visible state of things that the younger man was having anything but a content evening, and a crude comment would do nothing to ease the pain that hung thick in the air. At the same time, merely staring at Chase would not provide an answer to the questions burning deep in Wilson's heart.

Curiosity won him over in the next few moments of silence, as Chase had failed to reply to the poor excuse for a greeting. He peered past the doctor as subtly as he could, surveying as much of the apartment as he could in those short moments. The intent was to spot an open bottle, glass of scotch, or any other telltale sign of a cause to his coworker's strange flux in emotions.

Though obviously upset by more than just the unexpected visit, Chase blocked Wilson's gaze by shifting his body to fill more of the doorframe, effectively cutting of Wilson's limited line of sight. He then chose to respond to the opening statement, and in a voice than rang of anything but gratitude.

"I don't remember asking you to check up on me" Chase grumbled with a scowl on his lips. To hold such an expression must have been a feat of strength with the way his lower lip was quivering, and how much his body was shaking.

"I know you didn't, but I'm here anyway" Wilson spoke, reversing his tactics as he went. The brash opening was a mistake, and reflecting on that, he changed his tone to one that he often took when speaking to House. The intent was to not only affirm confidence, but to give assurance along with the declaration of the statement. Yet Wilson could see that this was also failing, as the angered look remained just as intense.

"Well, don't be worried" Chase spit back with a sudden hostility, letting the scowl give way to a half-hearted grimace. "I'm fine. Just go home."

"I don't doubt that" he lied in an attempt to win over Chase's trust. "Please, at least let me come in for a minute, just to take a look around, make sure you haven't had too much to drink" he prompted softly, trying to give Chase his most sincere look of concern, hoping it would reach him through the dark. The truth was, Wilson was more concerned than he would be willing to admit, and wanted nothing more than to help Chase if excessive consumption of alcohol was indeed the culprit.

"Haven't been drinking" Chase tried to rebut, but the flash of aggression from moments earlier had come to pass. The angered expression mellowed, and his gaze became passive. In this moment of silence, a pause that Wilson took as a breach of strength, the oncologist made his move.

House's oldest fellow was easily overwhelmed by Wilson shouldering forward into the apartment, and he didn't even bother to struggle against the intrusion as Wilson made his way into the dimly lit room. Out of respect for the man's home, Wilson tread as lightly as possible into the interior of the home, noting that Chase made no effort to stop him as he made his way in. His eyes scanned the tables for bottles and glasses, and surprisingly, there were none to be found. He walked in another few steps, stunned that his instincts had been wrong. After all, it was only natural instinct to assume that Chase's distress had come from a copious amount of alcohol running through his bloodstream.

"I told you, I haven't been drinking" Chase growled softly. As he turned to face the other doctor, Wilson had to fight off the temptation to be apologetic. He had just come into this house uninvited, carrying a handful of seemingly false accusations with him. At the same time, Wilson was given affirmation that he should not relent. If something was so bothering Chase that he was reduced to this state while sober, there was no doubt that he needed someone to talk to.

Before he could utter an apology or a question, Wilson's gaze was caught by beads of sweat now running down Chase's temples. The hair had shifted out from in front of his face, and now Wilson could easily see how flushed Chase's cheeks had become. The look was less than flattering, but it was one that any doctor could recognize in a heartbeat.

"Hey, you look like you might be running a fever. Are you feeling okay?" He inquired, although he already knew what the answer was going to be, making the question nearly redundant.

"I'm fine. Just go home, please. It was stupid to call you, and my question was stupid, okay? Just forget about it" Chase muttered, wiping at the sweat with the back of his sleeve, an obviously self-conscious gesture.

A different doctor might have given in at this point, apologized for the intrusion, and left their fellow man to sort out his own problems. But Wilson was different- he was weathered by years of dealing with House, and something as small as an indignant comment would not bring him to back down. It wasn't in his nature to abandon someone in the throes of suffering, and though Chase was a coworker, that didn't change Wilson's instinct to nurture.

"Listen, Chase, just sit down. I'll run to your bathroom and grab some Ibuprofen, okay? Then I promise I'll be out of your hair" Wilson started, moving towards the hall at the far end of the kitchen. He suspected that Chase's bedroom and bathroom lay at the end of the short hall, and as to stand true to his promise, he tried to make his movements and prompt as possible.

It seemed that Chase had other ideas, however. As soon as he set foot in the hallway's entrance, he heard Chase yell after him, nothing but dread filling his voice.

"Stop, please!" Chase shouted, suddenly springing away from the door and towards where Wilson stood. Wilson was shocked by the panicked desperation that came from the younger man, but to see Chase approaching so quickly was what really startled him. Holding up his arms, Wilson momentarily stopped trying to suppress his confusion at Chase's new distress. The younger doctor rushed to his side and put a tight grip on Wilson's wrist, as though he were clinging on for dear life.

"Please" he pleaded with Wilson, his eyes as wide as saucers. "Just go home. I'll be fine."

"What are you hiding, Chase?" Wilson asked sternly, yanking his hand out of Chase's grip with a swift tug. The anger was only feigned; inside, Wilson was intently focused on Chase's acute distress. In fact, he found himself weighing the true urgency of the situation, which was on the brink of serious escalation from mere emotional turmoil. There hadn't been an occasion that Wilson could recall Chase using physical contact to make a point, so even the slight physical restraint was a break in character. It couldn't be any more clear to Wilson that there were secrets which remained to be uncovered, against the will of the intensivist.

If an underlying problem was indeed to cause of Chase's emotional state, Wilson knew that the issue should take precedence, especially if it was something physical, such as drug abuse. He watched his own friend fall victim to that folly with each passing day, and swore that he would not allow Chase to subject himself to the same, or anything worse. Firm in his decision, and unwilling to relent to mindless pleading that greeted his ears at an unpleasant whine, Wilson turned and walked towards the bedroom, ignoring the desperate tugging at his arm.

"Don't do this, please don't do this!" Chase cried out, grabbing Wilson's arm once more in a last-ditch attempt to halt the advance. His grip was surprisingly strong, but still Wilson pressed forward, feeling the fingers digging unpleasantly into the skin on his upper arm. Disturbed by the true intensity that such a powerful hold had on his skin, Wilson bit back an expression on the discomfort the action had caused him.

The light to the bathroom was already on, the door cracked just enough that beams of light spilled out into the messy bedroom, illuminating piles of clothes littering the floor. Chase's panic had only fueled Wilson's concern, and now the oncologist was convinced that the key to this would lie in the bathroom, for there had been no other clues in the house to any significant item troubling Chase. There wasn't even the slightest hint of hesitation as Wilson shoved the door open with a flat palm, allowing the light to fill his eyes, and reveal to him the epicenter of disaster.

Though Wilson had no true idea what to expect in the standard apartment bathroom, there was nothing in his mind that could prepare him for what lay in front of him. Not even a blink could pass before the most alarming revelations of the room stole the breath from his lungs, rendering him unable to move as he surveyed the carnage.

The perfection of the white tiled floor was fractured by a few blood-soaked towels, piled haphazardly, spotted by large splotches of color. A large, blood-stained knife sat beside the sink, what would have been a silver shine overwhelmed by liquid. The gore coating the knife was still bright red, droplets splattered across the marble in a work of abstract art, staining the brilliant white with the crimson of recently spilled blood.

Wilson was rendered momentarily immobile from shock at morbid scene. He needed no explanation for what lay in front of him; this possibility had never even crossed his mind, but he had no trouble piecing together the puzzle with the evidence with which he was presented, as though it were the scene of a terrible crime. Turning back to look at Chase, his heart pitied the poor man, and he was overwhelmed with emotions, the knowledge of Chase's pain, the thought that the man was driven to such a point. It seemed that Chase was feeling much the same, for he now stared at Wilson, eyes filled with the realization that his misgivings had been discovered.

Chase took an uneasy half step back, as though he were nothing more than a cornered animal preparing to dart away in a futile attempt to save their own life. But before he could move another inch, Wilson mustered his strength through the shock, and grabbed Chase's wrists firmly, ensuring that he couldn't move another step.

Cautiously he turned Chase's inner arms upwards, but they were spotless, the immaculate skin as unbroken as always. He should have known better; the doctor was smart, and knew that his fears would only be confirmed if he admitted to his deeds. Wilson looked up to meet Chase's eyes, which were now welling with tears. Trying to hide his heartbreak for Chase's pain, Wilson spoke directly to the blond, who had turned his face away in shame.

"I need to know where you hurt yourself, Chase." Wilson's heart was racing at the thought of this young doctor taking a knife to his skin, drawing it across, and allowing his own body to spill blood, enough to soak through towel after towel, staining the floors with red. His own shock at the situation was winning him over, but only for a moment. Focusing back on Chase, he prayed that perhaps the doctor would reply with the truth, but of course, Chase said not a word.

Biting back a sigh that would tell of his own anxiety, Wilson looked Chase's body over quickly, and noted dark splotches that had begun to stain the front of Chase's charcoal grey shirt. Taking his left hand from Chase's wrist, Wilson grabbed the bottom of Chase's shirt and yanked it upwards to reveal the intensivist's stomach.

Chase's toned abdomen was covered with a vast array of gashes and scars, all in various stages of healing. There wasn't a square inch of untouched skin, and ten or so new slices were still oozing blood. Other wounds still were recently inflicted, the skin surrounding the wound inflamed, and the wound itself covered in dark scabs. The newer gashes were obviously deeper, thicker, and what appeared to be more recent scars were deep red and purple, indicating wounds of great intensity. It was a patchwork of pain that covered what must have once been evenly tanned skin, but anything that had originally been was lost in the myriad of self-inflicted wounds.

Swallowing the urge to show any signs of anguish or disappointment, even pain of his own, Wilson let the shirt drop back down over Chase's stomach, and turned to look at the younger man's face. Fresh tears were streaming down it, and Chase had his lower lip clenched tightly in what Wilson recognized as an attempt to hold back whimpers. Wilson put his left hand on Chase's shoulder, relaxing his grip on Chase's wrist. He spoke as softly as he could in an attempt to comfort the crying man, and at the same time, hide his own disturbance at the terrible wounds he had seen.

"Chase, I need you to listen to me, okay? It's going to be okay. I promise that it's going to be okay. I'm here for you now." The words sounded infantile as they left his mouth, but at the same time, he knew it was just what Chase needed to hear. It obviously had been worlds away from 'okay' for the surgeon for quite some time, but that did not deter Wilson's racing mind. It had been quite some time since he had dealt with a similar situation, and he had never dealt with one of such severity. "How about we sit you down, and I'll get you cleaned up, okay?"

"You can't tell House!" Chase suddenly blurted out, his body rigid. Wilson's heart sunk to his feet the instant that Chase expressed those thoughts. His mind was reeling as he imagined what fear Chase must have of his employer for him to come to mind now, of all times. In a time of pain and crisis, the very first words that left Chase's mouth were expressing concerns regarding his boss, a boss not known for his kindness. That would have to be a problem that was sorted out later, for more pressing issues were at hand, such as the still bleeding wounds that laced Chase's skin. With his hand still on Chase's shoulder, Wilson guided the crying man into the bathroom, and gently sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, offering a hand out for support.

"Let's worry about House and work later, okay? I just want to make sure I can help you out first. Why don't we get you cleaned up? Do you have some gauze in here?" he soothed, and Chase nodded deftly. Wilson swallowed heavily, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as he pushed aside the bloodied towels with his foot. This amount of blood, especially of such a bright color, was quite terrifying. The vision of Chase sitting alone, drawing the blade across his skin, came into Wilson's mind once more, making the oncologist feel sick to the very pit of his stomach.

Pushing that aside with the tasks at hand, Wilson reminded himself that his own feelings were of little importance here, and his primary concern was sorting out Chase's agony. Opening up the cabinet, he pulled out a small package of gauze, which he already knew would make no more than a dent in the cuts that tore open Chase's skin.

"Can you take off your shirt, Chase?" Wilson asked, hunting the cabinet over for more supplies. He settled on another package of bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, setting them both beside the sink, but taking care not to set them in the blood. Chase didn't even argue, only pulled his shirt off over his head and cast it to the floor. It was as though he had shut down, and was running on autopilot, even the crying diminished to no more than body-wracking shivers.

There were no words that Wilson could summon as he stared back at Chase, who had his head hanging low. It wasn't just Chase's stomach that was scarred with a patchwork of cuts. The lines extended over his entire torso, wrapping around his back and up across his shoulder blades. They seemed to continue down his hips, and Wilson feared that Chase's legs may not have been spared the blade, as there was no break in the thick lines as they disappeared below the waistline of Chase's jeans.

However, he was forced to direct his attention to the immediately bleeding wounds, which he did so carefully, cleaning them with alcohol, all while Chase cried as silently as he could. No words passed between them for a minute. Wilson blamed himself for this fact; he couldn't bring himself to speak, too stunned by the massive damage that stared him in the face. He had never seen mutilation to this extent before, and of the skin that he saw, he could hardly find a spot untouched. It was fascinating, how not a single cut extended past the shoulders or too near to the collar, where eyes could see the damage. Chase had been clever, at his own expense. Eventually, Wilson mustered a few words, speaking them quietly as he taped down another square bandage.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Chase only shook his head in response to this, sniffling a bit through his nose. In a way, Wilson hadn't expected anything other than mute responses. At the same time, he desperately wanted to hear the reason for this awful, self-inflicted pain. There had to be a reason, and Wilson had no clues to piece it together, other than the strangely out of place phone call from earlier in the evening.

Reaching for yet another bandage, he recalled the exact details of the earlier conversation over the phone. Chase had been questioning whether or not he was good enough. Earlier that night, his first thoughts had been on House. And when Chase's secrets were discovered, his thoughts were on the same person.

Dread filled Wilson, and he had to suppress his anger by biting down firmly on his tongue. There was only one person who ever told Chase that he was not enough on such a regular basis, and that was his very boss. The man never guided, never taught, only demanded and expected, all the while belittling those who worked for him. Even as frustrated as Wilson got with his friend at times, he had never truly considered the effect that House's insensitivity had on his employees. If House had in any way caused Chase such pain that he felt the need to do this to himself, Wilson didn't know if there was really any way he could forgive the cruel diagnostician.

As he taped the final bandage in place, he gave a soft smile to Chase, who still wouldn't look him in the eye. Still using the soft voice reserved for his patients, Wilson offered Chase his hand, trying to ease the tension with a gentle smile, one awkwardly forced on his lips.

"It's very late, and I know you have work early in the morning. Why don't you go ahead and get to bed? I'll stay the night here with you just to make sure you get enough rest." Though the words were kind, Wilson knew that Chase was smart enough to know the underlying message: ' _I'm staying with you to make sure that you don't do anything stupid to yourself.'_

"So you're saying I can go to work tomorrow?" Chase questioned, and Wilson could tell by the incredulous tone of his voice that he was unbelieving. The oncologist nodded, trying to assure Chase that all would proceed as normal. Of course, that wasn't what Wilson truly had planned. Whatever he was going to do to address this problem, he would dream up sitting in Chase's bedroom, watching the wounded intensivist sleep.

Chase cautiously took Wilson's hand, and Wilson smiled, despite the clammy palm that met his. Even though his crying had ceased, Chase was practically shaking, his body still trembling. There was nothing to be done now, other than let the emotions run their course.

Wilson led the bandaged man to his bed, sloppy and unmade as it was, and allowed Chase to lie down without a word. There was a desk in the corner where Wilson figured he could stay the night, staring and wondering at what he could possibly do for Chase, and what he could possibly say to House about this situation.

"Thanks, doctor Wilson" Chase muttered as he pulled the sheets over his body, turning his back to Wilson and letting his head hit the pillow. Wilson didn't bother to give a verbal response, for he knew very well he didn't deserve to be thanked. Blood still stained the bathroom, and the scars that covered Chase's body would never fade. The hurt that had been seeded in Chase's mind was not going to go away, even with all the help Wilson could give.

Settling himself in the wooden chair, Wilson stared at Chase's unmoving body, and pondered what he could do to give this man any sense of respite from pain, and what he could do to end the self-inflicted suffering. His mind once again imagined the gruesomely large knife in the bathroom, and Chase trapped alone, digging it into his skin to relieve his anguish. It was unthinkable, and of all of the fellows, Chase had always seemed the sturdy, unmoving rock. His vote always lay with House, and his methods were sure and steady. He was a valuable asset, but now Wilson couldn't think of him as anything more than a stranger. This suffering, this pain, had been hidden well.

Wilson feared for a moment that it was his own ignorance that had prevented him from seeing it in the past, but he had to remind himself that he did not see Chase on a personal basis day to day, and hardly ever had lengthy discussions with him. He was not as close to Chase as House was, or any of the other team members. There was no way that he could blame himself for this.

Yet somehow, he still did, and his eyes burned as he stared at Chase's body, lying prone beneath the sheets. He wanted nothing more than to end that pain, and he knew that he would do all in his power to do just that.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I hope that you've enjoyed so far. A huge thanks to everyone who has followed and reviewed this story. If you have any comments, questions, or concerns, feel free to drop a review, or just PM me! My inbox is always open. Thanks again for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson held the door open for Chase, who held a tight lipped smile, a painfully pitiful attempt at a return to normalcy. The pair was exhausted, and Chase was the only one of the two who had gotten even the slightest touches of sleep. Wilson was still wearing the clothes that he had worn all day yesterday, and he thanked his past self for insisting on keeping a clean change in the office.

The entire morning and ride to work had involved hardly a word between Chase and Wilson- the two men knew what had happened the night before, and Chase had likely weighed the consequences. Thankfully, Wilson was blessed with the ability to keep a straight face while lying through his teeth (another ability gained through excessive interaction with House). Chase made his way into the office with only a nod to Wilson, and Wilson politely nodded back.

Upon Chase's departure, Wilson made his way towards his own office with quick steps. He had seen House's motorcycle in the lot as he and Chase had pulled in, and the pesky diagnostician had failed to bother him on his way past the clinic, which meant that House had retreated to the only place he had left to hide in the morning- Wilson's very own office.

For the sake of convenience on this particular morning, Wilson was grateful for House's terribly frustrating habits. It would make pinning him down for an unpleasant conversation much simpler. There was no way that House wanted to hear what he had to say, and there was even still the chance that he wouldn't care. But Wilson had had the whole night to himself and his thoughts, and he had planned the perfect responses for anything that House threw back at him. Chase wouldn't be leaving the hospital tonight, Wilson would make sure of that. He was going to get the help he needed, whether he liked it or not.

Though the betrayal would be painful, it was what Chase needed. He was on an obvious downward spiral, the amount of blood in the bathroom had been a testament to that. The progression of the cuts across the stomach told a similar story, as with time, the wounds grew in size and depth. It was only a matter of time before things got worse, perhaps to a point that they couldn't come back from. Wilson wasn't going to knowingly let a friend suffer like that, and he sure as hell wasn't going to risk losing a friend through willful ignorance.

He arrived at his office then, and pushed the door open, greeted with just the scene he had suspected. House was sprawled across his couch, cane lying on the ground, one of Wilson's patient files clutched in his hands as he leafed through the pages.

"So, I see that Ms. White has been suffering migraines, even though her particular breed of cancer is in remission. How fascinating, Wilson. You must just be thrilled with these cases, each and every day, something new. Oh wait, you never have anything new. It's always cancer, isn't it?" House mocked, to which Wilson could only sigh and let his briefcase fall to the floor. His frustration at House's antics could be put off until a later date.

"House, we need to have a talk" he opened, trying to keep his voice serious, and give every indication to his friend that this was not a morning for joking manners. This was enough to make House perk up, raise his eyebrows, and grab for his cane, a clear sign that Wilson's intentions were not received.

"A talk, you say? About what this time? My terrible sense of humor? My dashing good looks? What terrible things I did to Cuddy last night?" the grey-haired doctor said with a lopsided grin, but Wilson didn't break, not to the same comments that were always tossed at him. He just sat down at his chair and stared at House, launching into the well-rehearsed beginning lines in the hope that they would call House into the land of true reality.

"This is something serious about one of your employees. I got a call from Chase late last night, and he sounded upset, so I went to check on him. Well, I found out something that he's been trying to keep hidden." Although he paused a moment to see if House would react, perhaps offer up an idea to what this mystery could be, the man's face didn't change from its usual grimace. Wilson was forced to continue, slightly disconcerted that House didn't even sleep the slightest bit concerned.

"Chase has been cutting himself. A lot. His whole body was covered in scars, anything that would normally be under a shirt. He had some deep self-inflicted wounds that I bandaged, and then stayed the night at his place. I'm getting him a spot in the psych ward as soon as we're done talking. He needs some serious help" Wilson finished, looking at House to gauge his possible reactions. Yet the other doctor only kept a neutral expression on his face, and a level voice when he responded.

"Cutting himself, you say? How fascinating. It looks like one of my little ducklings isn't faring so well after all. Of the three, he was the last one I suspected to have such problems. Will his little condition affect his ability to work in any way?" House finished, finally standing up and staring down at Wilson where he sat. Dropping his jaw in shock, Wilson threw his hands up in the air.

"House, do you have any idea how serious this is? He could have very well killed himself by now, in fact, you're lucky he hasn't. He's been hurting himself very badly, he's your employee, and you should really care about him! In fact, the only hint I have at why he's been so upset lately, is that he thinks he isn't good enough for anyone. I wonder who he got that idea from" Wilson exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief at House's ignorance. The older doctor only grimaced, giving Wilson a sour look.

"If he has insecurities, that isn't my problem. Either he has them or he doesn't. I didn't pick up the knife and tear his precious skin to pieces, so don't look at me like it's my fault. He's my employee, nothing more. So all I really care about is his ability to do his job. If you're really going to send him up to the psych ward, let me know now, so I can start hunting through papers for a replacement" House spit back, as apathetic as always. There was no way Wilson could be surprised more than he already was; he had expected as much, although he had hoped for much better.

"Whatever you say, House. I'm calling as soon as you leave. Don't let him know that I'm turning him in, I told him that I wouldn't. He can't suspect a thing, alright? Maybe just bother Cuddy for another fifteen minutes. He's the only one in right now, so he'll be gone without too much fuss, just like you like it" Wilson finished with a slight hiss in his voice, a last effort to display to House just how upset he was with the insensitivity.

"If that's what you think is right" was House's only reply before he limped out of the office, slamming the door behind him, and leaving Wilson to dial the phone and make a call he wished he never had to make.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I appreciate every single follow and review this story has received so far, thank you for your support. I hope you continue to enjoy the story, thank you again.**


	4. Chapter 4

Ten minutes later, Wilson made his way down to House's office, trying to repress the dark storm cloud brooding in his mind. The hospital was already alight with life; in fact, it never truly slept, the lights never going out. Thankfully, it seemed that the other two members of House's team had not yet arrived, and Chase was still sitting alone in the glass-walled office, looking over the latest patient file, a large medical textbook spread out beside him.

Wilson went to the elevator, trying to push aside the bitter feeling that he was acting more as Judas, and less as a friend. He was awaiting the two promised nurses that would assist Chase up to the psychiatric ward of the hospital, and all that he could hope was that they came swiftly enough that Chase didn't have the chance to suspect something strange. It was a terrible feeling in his gut to have betrayed Chase's trust in such a way, but he knew that there was no other option. He couldn't risk Chase's life for the sake of sparing himself the wrath of a friend, or for Chase's career. This was the right course of action, and Wilson knew it, however much his heart was denying it.

Just a minute later the doors opened, and two kind nurses walked out, smiles on their faces. Both of them gave Wilson a polite nod, and he shook their hands with a forced smile.

"He's just in that office there. I don't think there will be too much trouble getting him to go with you" Wilson tried to assure them, but the looks that both women cast him told him that they knew better. Wilson didn't exactly know Chase too terribly well, but he knew that the young man would not take too kindly to this intrusion in his life, especially considering the previous night.

As soon as they slid open the door, Chase glanced up, and his face fell. His mouth opened slightly and he stood, pushing himself away from the table in a fluid motion that nearly knocked the chair over. The betrayal reflected in his eyes as he stared at Wilson, who tried to approach him ahead of the nurses. But before the oncologist could speak, Chase shouted at him, voice cracking as he did so.

"You promised you wouldn't do this to me!" Chase started, backing up even further as Wilson advanced, almost as though he were a cornered animal. "You said that you wouldn't do this to me. I can keep working, there's nothing wrong with me!"

"It's for your own safety, Chase" Wilson tried to comfort, to no avail. Chase's eyes were darting back and forth, a nurse blocking each of the doors deterring his planned escape. The doctor's breathing was becoming labored, and it was obvious that panic was beginning to rise.

"Please, Chase, this is for your own good. You just can't hurt yourself anymore, and we're going to make sure of that" he assured, but by now, Chase had backed himself into the corner of the room by the coffee maker, back pressed against the wall.

"Don't do this to me. I swear, don't do this to me." It seemed Chase was still hunting for an escape, so Wilson turned to look back at the nurses. One of them was gesturing out the doors, and Wilson could see one of the security guards walking towards the office, a sour look on his face.

Tensions rose once again as Chase noted this addition to the cast that had filled the room, another obvious threat, and this brought even more panic to his actions. It was easy to hear Chase's wheezing from across the room, to see the fear glinting in his eyes. His hair had fallen across his face again, giving him a wild and desperate appearance. The security guard and nurse were approaching him now, and it seemed Chase had finally realized he had nowhere to run. Yet just before the burly man wrapped his hands around Chase's arm, the blond tried to bolt between the two, letting out a yell mixed with a cry.

The attempt was useless- they caught him in the blink of an eye, holding him fast even as he struggled to pull away, tears falling down his face. He stared at Wilson, and it was at that moment the oncologist felt his blood run cold, knowing just how much he was hurting this poor man.

"They can't keep me there, Wilson! I'll be out in a matter of days! I'll be right back here and you'll regret this!" he shouted, but at that point, the glass door slid open again, and the familiar sound of a cane hitting the ground gently caught Wilson's attention. Chase stopped struggling at the new arrival, even more shock filling his face.

"Listen, I haven't done anything wrong! Wilson made stuff up to cost me my job!" Chase shouted to House as he was being pulled closer and closer to the door. House's visage was still a chilling neutral, watching as his eldest employee was being forcefully yanked from his workplace.

Yet just before they got to the door, House halted the nurse and guard where they stood, and stalked up to Chase, who was still making whimpering pleas. House still didn't say a word, and Wilson just watched, as though he were nothing more than a distant spectator. House grabbed the knot on Chase's tie and yanked it loose, then undid the first two buttons on Chase's shirt, a stern look on his face. Chase didn't struggle, only bit down on his lip as House yanked down on the shirt, revealing just the beginning of the hundreds of cuts that covered Chase's torso.

The same sick feeling as the previous night filled Wilson's gut as he stared at the mess of scars staring up at him, and the bluntness with which House had approached the situation. Not even the nurses said a word, knowing better than to oppose House, or make a comment on a patient that was so obviously in need of assistance. Chase still seemed to strain against the arms of the security guard, however weak the efforts were at this point, and he stared up at House with something Wilson would call desperation.

"Please, tell them that they can't keep me! You practically own this hospital, you can make them let me go" he whispered hoarsely, but House only shook his head in reply to this.

"And I also own you. You've damaged yourself, so therefore, you've damaged my goods. Did you really think you could get away with this shit forever? You deserve to be up there with any other nutcase that would bleed themselves for their own selfishness. It takes a special kind of idiot to do what you've done to yourself, especially with a job as great as the one you-"

"House!" Wilson interjected, unable to hear the onslaught continue. Chase was shaking, crying, obviously distraught. Each one of House's words must have felt like a knife into the poor boy's heart. There was nothing worse than watching the stares from outside the glass peering in, seeing the scars exposed on Chase's chest, no longer his secret from the world. This time, House didn't bother to look at Wilson, only scowled again at Chase.

"You're not good enough to work here if you can't pull yourself together. Stop trying to get out of what you did to yourself, and just go and do your time" House growled, and Wilson wanted to punch him. This was House being honestly, truly mean. He wasn't being cruel for the sake of humor, or for a bottom cause. He was just being cruel for the sake of being cruel.

It was then that Chase was dragged away crying, turning over his shoulder, still pleading, though much more quietly. Wilson had to physically turn his body to ignore the begging, which only disappeared as the elevator doors finally slid shut, and then the only sound was House's heavy breathing. After another moment, the air was split by the sound of House's cane coming down hard on the table, so hard that Wilson was surprised it didn't splinter. At the same time, he turned around where he stood, looking at House's face, which was red with anger.

"Did you really have to do that?" His friend growled, a rage that was in turn fueling Wilson's own rage. The oncologist couldn't help but feel stunned, and disappointed. Even after such an awesome display of cruelty, a shocking revelation about one of the most steadfast souls in the hospital, all that House could do was act as he always did- without empathy.

"Of course I had to do it!" Wilson exclaimed, awestruck by the fact that even now, with such a serious situation, House couldn't see the severity of the issue in its entirety. "He needs this, and you know it"

"He doesn't need shit" House muttered back, throwing himself down in the nearest chair and rubbing his leg. "He's still up and walking, there was nothing physically holding him back. He was doing his job just fine, he hadn't made any more mistakes than usual" House finished, giving a look of disdain towards Chase's coffee cup, now sitting abandoned on the table.

"Nothing physically holding him back?" Wilson exclaimed, abandoning all thoughts of holding back as he tore into his best friend. "I don't know if you were seeing what I was seeing, but Chase had more injuries on his abdomen than the ER sees in a week. There is something _seriously_ wrong with him. Now, unless you want him to end up in a casket, you should do your best to support him and make sure he gets better"

"His health doesn't matter to me" House said in a cold tone, his face a more neutral color now that the anger had faded. "All this does is inconvenience me and his teammates. Do you know how hard it will be to deal with Cameron once she gets here? It'll be nothing but tears and melodrama once she finds out her fuckbuddy has been dragged away and put behind bars for the sake of his own mental health."

"You're right, House" Wilson said suddenly, unable to help himself as the words ripped free of his throat. "You're a heartless bastard."

There was no way that he could bear to be in the same room as that man any longer, not after what had just transpired between them. Without another word to the diagnostician, Wilson stalked out of the room, biting back the urge to scream.

 **Thank you all so much for taking the time out of your day to read this story! I hope that it has been an enjoyable read so far. I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to give this story a review, especially the kind words from Pallada, Noble Jester, myselfdenver, and FiveStarFrankieFandom. I also appreciate all the follows and favorites that this story has received. Thank you all so much!**


	5. Chapter 5

House sat down, pushing aside his rage. Chase's coffee cup still sat abandoned on the table, the journal he had been reading open and alone. The backpack that Chase brought every day was hanging over the back of his empty chair, one of the many reminders of what had just transpired, of the gaping absence that would soon be in their midst.

What House would have preferred at this point was time alone, time where he could take the luxury of not caring to its fullest extent. Instead he had to put on a show, and break the news to the other two fellows that would be arriving soon enough. There was little enough time as it was for House to get his thoughts straight. He didn't quite know what to focus on first, which made it more difficult to think about anything at all.

There was the first problem facing him; Chase's situation. From what he had seen of the blonde's chest, the problem was way out of his grasp. To think that Chase even had the capability to do something so heinous truly stunned House, and left him questioning his judgement. He had always assumed that Chase was the most stable of the trio, with his confidence, his lack of emotion fueling his choices. But now House stood, having been proven wrong, and utterly confused at what he could do, or could have done. There was no way that he could stop the images flickering through his mind, of the lines dancing over what should have been unbroken skin, of the hideous scars that cut through what should have been a flawless canvas. The image danced just behind his eyes, and it was agonizing, as he could not free it from his mind, as hard as he tried.

It was not just the sufferings of his eldest employee that held him in the throes of agonizing defeat. He had to think about his fight with Wilson, a conflict large enough that it warranted more than a passing thought or feigned ignorance regarding the severity. The two friends never went without their bickering, but House knew that maybe he had gone a bit too far this time.

It would even be obvious to a stranger that Wilson was upset about what Chase had been doing to himself. House could only begin to imagine the strain of witnessing such carnage first hand, an ordeal that must have been far from pleasant. At the same time, House couldn't help but resent Wilson for caring so much, for holding the world in his hands, as though he were able to save every small being from harm. It was an illusion that House himself had never had the luxury of experiencing, and care was not a commodity that he had in excess.

It was at that moment his concerned introspection was interrupted by the glass doors sliding open for the second time that morning. This time it was Cameron and Foreman that wandered through, joking lightly with each other. There was certain nonchalance to their gate, nearly cheerfulness, and each of them clutched a coffee in their hands without a care in the world.

With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, House swallowed a sigh at his frustration. Only a few minutes had passed, not quite long enough to have prepared a good explanation for why their colleague was absent. There had been no time to clear Chase's belongings away, or come up with a reasonable excuse to explain the missing space. It seemed that his employees would have to figure this mystery out for themselves, and House would have to pray for just a few more minutes to sort out his ponderings.

"Good morning" he greeted with his usual share of sarcasm, realizing that if he didn't say anything, the mystery was just as liable to be solved on his own. Foreman gave his usual welcoming nod, while Cameron actually cast him half of a smile with a muttered greeting. Both were signs of relative cheerfulness, especially where their usual attitudes were concerned. In a way, this made House satisfied. They were more likely to accept any bullshit he handed them if they were in good moods, but at the same time, it would mean a much harder fall from the heavens when they realized what had happened to their beloved coworker.

Thankful that he had dodged the questions he had anticipated with the concern of Chase's absence, House only pointed to the file on the table, and the whiteboard that was propped where it usually stood. The department hadn't had an actual patient for over a day now, so House had decided to test them with an old case, as opposed to taking the first bloke that wandered into the ER, as had been happening quite often in the past weeks.

"So, did any of you decide to become geniuses last night, or are we going to spend another twelve hours debating which type of hepatitis this has to be? Or today are we feeling brave, brave enough to think outside the box a little?" House inquired with his usual strains of unhappiness. As odd as it seemed, even to House himself, Chase had already been pushed to the back of his mind. It wasn't as though the Aussie made him happy, though in the end he proved to be the most useful of the three fellows. In a way, he had fought out of the background of each differential, putting forward a new thought to break even more ground. Sometimes he slipped, and sometimes he did no more than agree, but that was of no matter. That didn't mean that he wasn't a brilliant doctor- it only meant that he had become a grey background to the theater of House's mind unless he was displaying his brilliance.

Finding differential diagnoses was always more entertaining than personal, dramatic matters, which may have been in part why House was able to move on with such ease. It would have been no different with Chase there; by now, he would have only voiced two reasons why hepatitis of any sort wouldn't make sense. For a few blissful moments, it was as though nothing was wrong. He should have known that the serenity wouldn't last for long, especially with Cameron staring at Chase's empty spot with wide eyes.

"You're just going to start the differential without Chase here?" she asked, the hurt tone of her voice causing House to roll his eyes in reflex. He knew that the most emotional of the group would be the first to spot a flaw in the peace, but he had hoped that it wouldn't be so soon. Thunking his cane on the ground with a definitive tap, he stared at her, then flickered his eyes over to Foreman, who was only gazing at him inquisitively.

"That's right. Unlike usual, this patient's life isn't hanging in the balance. They're already dead! What a treat" House exclaimed, giving a twisted smile as he did so. He desperately hoped that this tone would direct Cameron away from what she was taking on as a 'situation,' but he could tell the diversion was a weak one, and failed to actually do the intended diverting.

"His bag is here, so is his coffee. He should be here, and you know it. If he was just out grabbing something, you would have us wait, unless he isn't out doing something quick. But even then, you'd still wait until he was back. Where is he?" she asked, crossing her arms defensively. This time, it wasn't even enough for House to just roll his eyes. He threw his whole head back, and brought his left head to rub at his temples.

"Does it really matter? He isn't going to be in today, if that's what you really want to know" he confessed, in an attempt to silence her. Of course, the shrill voice returned, piercing his ears at a pitch he found quite annoying.

"What do you mean, he isn't going to be in? He's already in, all his things are right here!"

"Great observation skills, Dr. Cameron! Don't worry, he's here in the hospital, he just won't be coming into work for a few days" House hissed, using the tip of his cane to shove Chase's bag off of the chair and onto the floor, where it fell with a sickening thunk. Cameron's jaw had dropped, staring at the bag which had just been so obviously disrespected. She must have been too stunned to speak, for this time, Foreman filled the silence with a few thick words.

"What do you mean, 'he's here?' If he's here, he should be in the room for the DDX, whether the patient is dead or alive. Is there something you aren't telling us, House?" the neurologist asked, that pesky growl to his tone. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, House shrugged his shoulders, giving up on the illusion that Chase's disappearance would be a fun mystery. It seemed that those working under him had the sickeningly sweet heart that so plagued Wilson, and now he was left to deal with the mess.

Cameron was the worst of them all, and although he could occasionally convince her to breach ethics in the operating room, when it came to her emotional commitments, she wouldn't budge an inch. Those piercing eyes stared at him, seeming to demand an answer, though her body language spoke of nothing but questions. Giving in to their insatiable curiosity, resigned to the fact that his employees would not relent, House reluctantly muttered out the information they wanted to hear.

"Yeah, he's here, just two floors up. Don't pay it too much thought. We still have plenty of work to look forward to."

Four eyes stared back at him, wide, parted lips unspeaking. They all knew just what ward of the hospital lay two floors above, and it seemed that despite this common knowledge, it took far too long for two extremely intelligent doctors to put the pieces together.

"You mean… Chase is up in the psych ward?" Cameron managed to stutter after a moment. House rolled his eyes again, seemingly a theme of the morning, and didn't give Cameron the satisfaction of nodding his head.

"What's he doing there?" she questioned, reaching for the file that had laid on Chase's empty spot with greedy hands, as though it held the answers to a question she didn't want to ask. "Do we have a new patient up there? Is this their file?" The young female doctor seemed desperate to find just the cause of her friend's absence, anything other than the worst case scenario that had surely flooded her mind. As House shot a side glance to Foreman, it seemed that the stoic man already had the answer, his lips in a tight line.

"Cameron" Foreman started, his voice much more gentle than House would have ever used, as though he were speaking to an injured child. "Chase isn't there _for_ a patient. He's there _as_ a patient."

"What are you talking about?" Cameron started, her voice climbing up into the pitch of panic once more. "Chase doesn't belong up there. There's nothing wrong with him. He's happy, and he's cheerful, and he's always there for us, he's always here. He's not sad or anything" she tried to justify, and House couldn't resist the snarl that came over his face as sudden as a bolt of lightning.

"Then I guess you don't know your 'friend' all that well, and I guess I've been proven wrong along the way. You two aren't screwing after all. Because if you were, you'd know that our little wallaby has been carving himself up like a Christmas ham" House stated with a hint of malice. Yet he took no satisfaction in watching the way that Cameron's eyes went wide, filling with tears after just seconds.

It took no time for the fiery female to act, getting to her feet quickly. House watched as her throat shifted, showing that she had swallowed. There was hardly any time to brace himself for the coming verbal assault, which came in a heavy thunder as she marched over to him, spit landing on his face as Cameron screamed her frustrations.

"That's not funny, House! You can't just go saying things like that. That's not something to joke about. I can't believe you'd say something like that" she hollered, before stalking back to her seat, the tails of her jacket flaring out behind her. House only shook his head, turning to Foreman, who still had the same, solemn look on his face. It was obvious that the man knew that House wasn't joking, not this time around, despite the crass nature of how he admitted the situation.

"So what now, House?" Foreman asked, turning his gaze away from Cameron, who seemed to be fighting back tears.

"Nothing!" Cameron shouted, her hair flying wildly as she whipped her head to look Foreman in the eyes. "We don't do anything until Chase comes back. He's probably down in the clinic for a few hours, that's all. He always picks up House's hours, and that's all he's doing this morning, I'm sure of it"

"Cameron" Foreman tried again, reaching a hand out across the table. "You know he hasn't been himself lately. You knew he was taking bandages from the clinic, you were the one who asked him about it, and decided not to press the issue. We all knew something was going on, we just didn't want to say anything, because he acted like everything was okay. I know this is a surprise, but it shouldn't have been. There was something wrong, we just elected to ignore it, just for the sake of making our lives simpler."

"Why are you siding with him?" Cameron spoke, seemingly out of disbelief. House couldn't bear this any longer, for the tension and high emotions were driving him towards a splitting headache. The battle between sanity and irrationality taking place right before his very eyes was threatening to drive him out of his mind. Slamming his cane down on the table for the second time in the afternoon, immediately catching the attention of the two distressed doctors sitting in front of him.

"I don't give a damn how you feel about his situation. How Chase feels shouldn't affect how well you do your job either. He's just one man, and he can be replaced, just like all of you if I get fed up with your attitudes. If you think I'm joking, just try me. He's up there for seventy-two hours, they can't legally keep him longer than that. He's stuck for a while, and we still have work to do. So stuff your feelings back in your pants, and pull yourselves together. We're in the middle of a differential."

Foreman still didn't speak, as per usual, but Cameron stood again, her eyes already bloodshot. After biting down on her lip, she strode towards the door, discarding her coat and slinging it over the hook by the door. With one look over her shoulder before she left the room, she choked out a few words.

"You're a miserable bastard."

House couldn't do anything other than sigh and close his eyes. It seemed that it wouldn't be the last time he would hear someone say those words that morning.

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	6. Chapter 6

Though Foreman still sat in his chair after Cameron's fiery display, it was clear that he had no intention of working with House. In fact, as things were, there wouldn't be any work getting done that day. With a curled lip serving as a clear display of his distaste for the situation, House nodded to Foreman, and then to the door.

"Clinic. Now. It's also your job to get Cameron's attitude under control" he spit, picking up his cane and moving towards his office at an aggravated limp. He had almost passed the threshold of the door within those few seconds, and he nearly allowed himself to feel something akin to relief. Only then, when he was almost out of frustration's way, Foreman broke through House's defended escape with a few quiet words.

"You can't pretend that nothing has happened, House. If the situation with Chase is serious enough he has to be put in the hospital, we deserve to know what's happening with our friend." Normally, the ponderings of the most level-headed of the bunch were not to be ignored, but House was hardly in the mood to entertain his employee's thoughts.

"He's your friend, isn't he? Then it's your job to find out. I'm your boss, not your mother, not your friend, so stop acting like I am. Whatever he's done is his personal problem. If you couldn't tell, it's only become my problem because it's getting in the way of how I'm working. So just shut up and go do my clinic hours" House hissed with ice in his voice, a malice that he couldn't usually bring himself to possess tainting his words. He was hardly, if ever, cruel just for the sake of being cruel; he was never without his purposes. Whether he was aiming to uncover a lie, to persuade a patient, or bring something to benefit himself, he used his ill humor and cold words to his precise advantage. He did not take express pleasure in cruelty, but this morning, after these revelations, he couldn't bring himself to do anything less.

It was obvious that Foreman had detected this change of attitude, for he recoiled at the sharpness of the words with raised brows. House didn't have any feelings or returned expression for such an adverse reaction. Enough feelings and grief and pain had been shared that morning, and he was sick of it. Leaving Foreman to deal with his own troubles, House finally crossed into his office and shut the door behind himself.

All that he truly wanted to do was to retreat, but with what felt like the whole world staring in through glass windows, all he could manage to do was swallow heavily. To still the rapid beating of his heart, he chose to grit his teeth and breathe in deeply through his nose. His mind was a flurry of chaos, so many thoughts and questions acting like bullets through his neurons. For a split second, House realized that he was trying to process too much information, so much so that his thoughts were nearly clouded.

The only feeling he could grasp at the moment was disbelief, though he tried to drown it under feigned anger. The thoughts of those lines tracing over Chase's skin flashed behind his eyes again, causing him to grimace. He hadn't cared about his employees enough to ever ask what they felt, and he had hardly detected a nuance in the way that Chase had been behaving the past months. House had always counted on his careful observance of those around him to measure their tipping point, each micro expression painting him a story of their feelings, of their lives. There was no impact in the usual job performance, and no difference in how Chase treated colleagues and patients alike. To know that Chase had been able to hide a secret so large brought an echo to the back of House's mind, an echo questioning if the diagnostician's skills were faltering.

With another grimace, this one spawned of frustration, House threw open one of his desk drawers, just one of the many junk drawers he possessed. Rooting through it, his fingertips brushed over a collection of keys that were scattered between staples and rolls of tape, dodging rubber bands to snatch up the one with a golden keychain, a single key hanging from the silver loop.

Grabbing nothing other than his jacket, House stuffed the key to Chase's house in his pocket, and walked out the door. He wasn't going to tell Cuddy, or Foreman, or anyone, where he was going. It was without a word to anyone that he went down to his motorcycle, jumped on, and tore away from the hospital, face bathed in the mid-morning sun.

Thankfully, Chase didn't reside too far away from the hospital, which made the time spent in transit just bearable. House preferred it that way- short, choppy bits, just enough evasion that he didn't have to face reality until a later time. Each turn was an excuse to focus his attention away from his mind, from his problems, each sign was something else for his mind to process. He was pushing off his appointment with the truth until a time that it became convenient for him, but he knew that if he tried to rationalize such a thing, it would only bring his leg to ache with a renewed intensity

After sliding the key into the door to the apartment, House held his breath, but only for a moment. He didn't know what to expect beyond those doors, whether it would be any different from what he had seen the last time that he had broken in. He knew that it was stupid to imagine tides of red flowing out as soon as he opened the door, or that there would be any obvious, visible signs of trauma. Chase had hid everything well enough for months, and when he walked through that threshold, he knew he would find an immaculate apartment, just as ordinary as the last time he had paid a visit.

And as he opened the door, cautiously as he did, those expectations were met. The interior of the apartment was as bland as when he had last visited, with bookshelves against the walls and the same couch in front of the large flat screen television. The same, plain décor was on the walls, and the same rugs covered the hardwood floors.

In his usual fashion, House made his way across the room, and into the kitchen, throwing open the cabinet doors as he went, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Upon seeing nothing spectacular in their rather empty depths, he moved towards the fridge doors, opening those as well. As he scanned the shelves, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, House grabbed the carton of orange juice and savored a large drink, then replaced it on the shelf. He needed anything, any hint of signs of distress, yet he found none. The house seemed just as perfect as it had been the last time.

A few minutes later, after his curiosity regarding the kitchen was sated, he wandered towards the bedroom, and noticed the level of cleanliness degrade immediately. There were clothes piled on the floor, enough to amount to a few weeks' worth, and dirty dishes were stacked on the dressers. Ties were draped over the nightstand, and shirts were spilling out of opened dresser drawers.

With a scowl of disapproval, House regarded the uncleanliness of the living space. Disgust would have to be a first stepping stone in the path to recognizing that Chase actually had a problem, one that he had managed to hide so skillfully. With weeks of chores obviously abandoned, nearly forgotten, it was easy to see that the state of the dark and dingy bedroom was serving of a reflection of Chase's mind. Work was spilling onto the floor, taking up most of the space, though the simple day to day tasks were what brought to room to the border of filthy. To see this bedroom was to peer into the mind of another man, not the brilliant doctor that studied beneath the diagnostician with unrivaled passion.

Another feature that House noted was the desk in the corner of the room, heaping with books and papers as opposed to dishes and clothes. It was obvious that the intensivist had indeed carved himself out a small cove for undisturbed work, even though the nature of the space was chaotic at best. The chair was pulled away from the desk, and angled towards the bed, and it was with no additional thought that House recognized its purpose. Wilson had spent the night with the intensivist, and now House could picture him perched in the chair, staring over Chase's sleeping form. The thought made him feel ill, that his best friend had discovered the ailments that Chase suffered before his own employer.

Wilson, always the bleeding heart, had stayed to do the right thing, when everyone else had failed to even pay Chase a well wish here or there. House had just gone along trusting his own judgement, when such naivety may indeed have led to Chase's demise. Even upon hearing the news, House couldn't bring himself to respond with anything other than cruelty, an electric reflex to negative emotions entering his life. Prodding his cane against the closest pile of clothes, House swallowed back his feelings, and gave another look around the room to try and draw his mind away from such painful thoughts.

Suddenly curious at the one discrepancy to the haphazard, and in a desperate attempt to rid his shoulders from the burden of guilt, House proceeded with wariness towards the opened door. The only clear path in the bedroom was towards that threshold, a small gap in the heaps of clothing just enough to weave in that direction. House opened the door, peering inside as he flicked on the light, blinding himself momentarily at the bright white exposure. But once his vision cleared, he couldn't do so much as swallow.

The scene that lay before him made his stomach churn, a reaction that House hadn't felt in quite some time. The blood was everywhere, the most immediate and apparent feature of the room. It was easy to see what had shocked Wilson so terribly, so much so that he found it necessary to snatch a skilled employee from his job. Bloody towels lay discarded across the floor, and blood was spattered across the once white tiles in dark red beads. House could see where Wilson had tried to patch up the injured man, with boxes and paper backings scattered across the floor between the tiles. There was a knife lying beside the sink, a once brilliant carving knife, smeared in a fair amount of crimson.

Recalling his earlier, off color comments towards the other fellows, House couldn't help but feel guilt. The words he had used to describe Chase's self-inflicted injury were cruel and crude at the very best, things that he would never have intended had he been thinking clearly. His words that morning had had no benefit for anyone, himself included in that number.

House's stomach felt increasingly upset as he surveyed the scene. The amount of blood on the towels was considerable, though not enough to be fatal, and he knew that Chase knew that well enough. The man was a surgeon by trade, and he knew how to measure blood just by sight, knew just where to cut for each vein to be affected just how he wanted it.

As much as House didn't want to admit it, he knew that this whole thing was done with a surgeon's methodology. Each time Chase laid the blade into his skin, he knew exactly what he was doing. House could even imagine him muttering the names of arteries and organs beneath his breath as he traced the knife through the skin just above them. Each time he dug the silver into his tissue and let blood spring to the surface, his immense knowledge was the gauge of his danger and precise infliction. Chase had refined his craft into a sickening, deadly form or art, beautiful to no one.

With one more glance around what might as well have been a crime scene, House wandered out of the bathroom, and sat down on Chase's bed. It swayed beneath his weight, and House was left looking at his own lap, hands shaking as the gripped onto his cane. He had not even an inkling of desire to stay in that home any longer, around that clear display of pain, but the strength in his leg was threatening to abandon him.

In that moment he thought back to all of the things he had said to Chase in the past months, anything that had been more cruel than usual, anything that proved he had some sort of inclination to treat Chase any better or worse. And as he toiled over those thoughts, he realized that he had no conclusion. Chase had always just been another employee, a brilliant one, his intelligence the only true distinction from his coworkers. Foreman shared his passion, and Cameron shared his sometimes childlike awe. The one thing that had always held the Aussie apart was his charm, and House had never tried anything other than to extinguish the flame, a brightness that had proven to be no more than a sham.

At that recognition, House swallowed, trying to push back the guilt one final time, rubbing at his leg furiously with an open palm. He had told Chase too many times that he was useless, when the truth was, he was a crucial member of the team. He was intelligent, daring, and one of the only ones that would honestly go head-to-head with House if it came down to it, even if it meant physical contact.

And now he was stuck in some padded cell waiting to be cut loose, just so he could go back to his self-destructive tendencies. His best asset had quickly been reduced to another patient, and there had been nothing he could do to stop it, or to see it coming. Though House was observant, and knew that everyone lied, he had had no way to predict a revelation such as this one, at least, not one that he had taken advantage of.

House looked at the clock on Chase's bedside table, and noted that though it was nearly mid-afternoon, he had no desire to go back to the hospital. The two remaining team members would do anything but work, and House himself was in no mood to go work in the clinic or tangle with Cuddy or avoid Wilson. Instead, he stayed in Chase's room, contemplating the events of the day, trying to push away his insufferable feeling of responsibility for all that had brought Chase distress.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review I get on this story. I encourage you, don't be shy if you want to drop a review! If it sounds mean, I promise, it isn't. I want my work to get torn to shreds so that I can get better. If someone is OOC without explanation, if the dialogue doens't match the character's normal speaking patterns, or if you just don't like something that's going on, please let me know! Critique and feedback are the only ways that I can get better and bring a better story to you :) If you have anything to say, feel free to drop a review, or if you don't want to make your thoughts public, just drop me a PM! Thanks so much you guys, hope to have a new chapter up for you soon.**


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing that Chase noticed as he came out of a haze of grogginess was an intense, fiery itching spread over his torso. For just a few moments, nothing seemed too terribly unusual to his muddled thoughts. The wounds always had their irritation as they healed, but for some reason, with the rest of his senses inexplicably failing him, it was a most terrible sensation, one that stole the breath from his lungs and the sanity from his mind. It was as though the burning was overwhelming his whole body, but there was nothing he could do to stop it as the rest of his form was rendered completely immobile.

 _They drugged me!_ Chase thought with frustration, fighting to summon the willpower to even lift a single finger as he finally recognized the drug-induced state of mind. He felt as though his head was filled with thick fog, and his body felt as though it were made of lead. For a moment, more so out of pain than of true empathy, he felt for every patient that they had subdued in this manner, even if it had been for the sake of their own safety.

Groaning again, Chase tried to recall just how he had ended up in this hospital bed, drugged out of his mind. It took a few moments of desperate hunting for the memories, but as soon as it all clicked into place, rage boiled up in his gut again. It had started the night before, with Wilson discovering his most vile and closely guarded secret. Chase had been hiding it for over a year, and not one person, not even House, had suspected a thing. He thought himself clever, and accomplished, for keeping something so ghastly to himself for the longest time.

After he had been caught red-handed, as it were, he had been left with no other choice than to give Wilson the entirety of his trust. He had expected that the empathetic oncologist, of all people, would be the last to confess his sins to anyone. And of all people, Wilson would be the one to at least withhold the truth from House and his crass ways. Somehow, his expectations had been built as strong as a fortress, all because of that comforting smile that Wilson could force on his face for his cancer-ridden patients. But still, Chase had been dragged from his office, utterly humiliated in front of half the staff on that floor, and his deepest secret had been revealed to anyone who happened to glance his way.

In his panic initial, Chase had struggled, he had fought against the arms that dragged him towards the psychiatric ward, although he acted against his better judgement. There was no need to fight against the arms that held him; they were merely committed to their job, which at that point, was to restrain him. And after the elevator doors had closed, he had relented in his struggles a bit, realizing their futility, and not wishing to trouble the nurses any longer. He was a doctor, and he was smart, and all he had to do was get through those seventy two hours. If he could do that, he would be home free before he knew it.

Unfortunately, the serenity hadn't lasted that long. He was required to sit in for a quick psychiatric evaluation, as were all new patients, to judge the true degree of threat he had posed to himself. Although such a nightmare had never crossed his mind, as a doctor, Chase knew just what to say, just how to maintain his composure to make himself appear clear minded. Only when they started asking personal questions, like asking to see the wounds from his self-inflicted injury, did he begin to grow defensive again.

 _"I'm a doctor, and I've been working as a doctor just fine through all of this! You can't condemn me for my way of coping"_ he had spat, hands tugging desperately at the shirt he had already buttoned shut again, as though the man could see straight through the fabric. But as he had persisted, Chase acted by standing up out of the chair and turning his back on the man that had been questioning him, defiance crackling in the air. In no time, a large enforcer had taken a hold of Chase's arm and asked him to take a seat, to comply with the man's requests. Chase's attitude was teetering on the brink of a very dark place, and the doctor recognized it, but he had no way to control it. He had been pushed to new limits that morning, and this was the final straw, and he couldn't help but snap. He had drawn a fist back and planted it square on the guard's nose.

Of course, nothing but chaos and a fat needle in his arm had proceeded from there. As his world had faded to black, he cursed his own foolishness, his inability to keep a level head when things got too heated. He knew that when he woke up, he would be in quite an unpleasant place.

To a degree, that was true. Waking up in a hospital bed was never the most comforting thing in the world, and neither was awakening to a world consumed by pain and anger. But it was a small miracle to behold, the fact that Chase felt as though there were a reason to live, another ounce of fight in him. Blinking open his eyes, the realization of what had happened to him, all of that brought back a sort of will within that had been absent for such a long period of time. The anger hadn't totally subsided, and for the first time in months, the fire of willpower was burning bright in his gut. This was the first awakening that he could recall that wasn't a haze of black and grey, a monotony that begged him to search for death's sweet release.

The pain had started as an idea, a half-rational thought that sprung into his head late one night. All he needed to do was stimulate his nerves long enough to get him out of bed, to get him through the day, and he had his whole body as a canvas. He had seen not just his friends, but his boss, fall in and out of the throes of addiction, and had sworn himself clean from drugs. So when searching for a way to deal, the knife had been his next best bet.

It had all started with a few shallow wounds across his thighs, a place that no colleague would see, and that a girl wouldn't be too likely to see if he kept the room dark. As the blood had beaded bright against the surface of his skin, Chase had begun to feel alive again, like no amount of sex, food, or alcohol ever had. He had once sustained himself on just the satisfaction from practicing medicine alone, but then had come the alcohol, and then the girls. Then to escape the meaninglessness that those activities had taken on, he had started the cutting, to spare himself from the threat of crippling addiction. Unfortunately, his plan had an unforeseeably futile outcome.

What was once a few solitary lines across his legs had cascaded. He had taken the knife to his stomach, he had sharpened the blade, and he had brought it deeper. Canyons were created in the once clean fields of his abdomen, and he had soaked the blood with elated futility, drenching towels and shirts with the bright red essence of life itself. As they healed, the itching was fierce, the pain of the wounds biting each time he showered, each time he stretched and they strained. But he was clever, always keeping them well hidden under his shirt, always feeling carefully for blood to make sure none seeped through his shirt. He was forced to be constantly vigilant for any indication that one of the wounds had reopened. The pain allowed him to keep living with a smile on his face, a clear mind, and after a good deal of time, he had forgotten the sinful nature of his deeds.

He had never suspected that he would get caught. The assumption had always been that one day the pain would stop inside his mind, and with it, the now-compulsive need to harm himself. There was no longer anything unusual in seeing the deformities in the mirror, those valleys across his skin staring back at him, shades of whites and pinks. There was just shame at his secrecy, worry that the wounds would split and bleed through his clothing, the constant fear of discovery nagging at the back of his mind. That's when he had started taking bandages from the hospital as stealthily as he could, desperately trying to avoid anyone recognizing a pattern in him purchasing the same elsewhere. If he cut too deeply one night, he would bandage the wound, stitch it if he had to. He was a surgeon, and knew what each cut would do to his body, and knew just how much blood he could lose before he grew too faint to handle the situation himself.

He hadn't seen it as anything beyond what it was- a method to cope with his dark feelings, however awful it might be. It was a secret, but not one that was too terribly dark, no more of a secret than someone grabbing a few drinks after work. He just kept his a bit more well-hidden, a bit more secretive, because he knew the potential consequences were much more severe than the threat of going cold-turkey.

Yet here he was, serving his time, desperate already to get out of this hell. Alone in this room, which he already knew the layout of all too well, his foggy mind slowly clearing to reveal his frustrations. This was never how he had intended for things to end, and this was never the outcome he had hoped for in the case someone did discover his secret. But there was nothing he could do now other than focus on the itching overwhelming his torso, and the will to fight against the drugs coursing through his veins.

Moving a hand up to examine his chest, he gently sought for the now-healing wounds that had been itching so badly. To his surprise, he found the entirety of his torso bandaged tightly, thick white gauze covering everything from his hips to right up under his arm. Wrinkling his nose in distaste at this new addition to his body, Chase pulled slightly at the bandages with lazy fingers, realizing that they were done expertly beneath the hospital gown now covering his body. Though he hadn't expected any less, it was still a large deterrent. There was no way that he could get them off without a struggle, and at this point in time, the last thing that he wanted to do was prolong his stay in this hell.

 _Compliance_ , he reminded himself. To follow the rules, remember the playbook that they always used, that was the only way he was going to get out in one piece, and as quickly as possible, at that. That was all he could do now; think of what to do when he was out, and until then, weather the storm. He had to fight off the urge to hurt himself, rake his short fingernails across virgin skin to release his frustration. All that he had to do was restrain himself long enough to go home, and then he could deal with the chaos raging in his head. It was only then that he wished that the effects of the drugs weren't clearing his mind, and he hoped desperately, irrationally, for the effects of the sedatives to remain.

Only then did he wonder if he could actually make it three days without trying to hurt himself someone, and if there was any other way to ease the pain.

 _Dear God_ Chase thought, his eyes stinging with pain as the severity of the pain across his body seemed to spike, and he arched his back with the burning. With that he felt the closed wounds stretching, even beneath the well-done dressing. _I really do have a problem, don't I?_

This was the only thing he could ponder as he savored the feeling of his wounds threatening to tear, threatening to bleed, bringing him just enough sensation that he could push away the dark clouds consuming his thoughts, just enough that he could remember the end to this darkness. He didn't need to use a knife, as long as he was here- the damage he had already done to his body, the self-loathing, it would have to be enough.

In just seconds he came to a realization; the sedative had worn off enough that his motor functions were all returned in full. He could move without the feeling of metal consuming his skeleton, and he could sense without his pain receptors dulled. The pain from his healing wounds, from the true repercussions of his secret's discovery, it all came pouring into his mind again, this time in a blinding technicolor display, without a drug to dull his perception. It was truly awful and terrible, and there was nothing Chase could do to take away his own misery.

Thrown into a panic, at the thought of losing his job, at House's previous rage, at his own inability to use self-control, Chase brought his hands up to his chest and yanked at the gauze. The arms of a panic attack were wrapping around him like a vice, and his vision was growing black around the edges. There was nothing left in his body other than the desire for more pain, something, anything at all, that could help him escape from the hell he had made for himself.

Unable to help himself, Chase started screaming, and couldn't bring himself to stop.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! Here's a bit of Chase, for any of you who were wondering how he was doing :) I'm really overwhelmed by the support on this story. Thanks so much to anyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed this story! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. Thank you all again!**


	8. Chapter 8

House strode across the lobby of the hospital entranceway with his usual fractured gait. Though his stuttered walk made it difficult for him to blend in with the usual morning crowd, he tried to stride evenly, as casually as he normally proceeded. He knew that he was giving no external demonstration of his intent, his facial expressions as neutral and as controlled as ever. No one walking past him knew the weight he was carrying on his shoulders, the pain lacing his forearms. No one could see the stone-heavy items he carried at the small of his back and in his jacket pockets. He was just as cool and collected as ever, and his reputation assured the fact that no hospital staff would go out of their way to stop him even if he did appear to be more aggravated than usual.

Stepping into the elevator, he pressed the button for a floor that he normally didn't visit, making sure that he didn't hesitate with his movements as he settled into the back of the crowd joining him in the enclosed space. Despite what he was planning, he would have preferred to go to his office first, have a chance to drop his jacket on his chair, and perhaps grab some food. But that's where he knew that Cuddy or Wilson would be looking for him, like ruthless hunters awaiting their prey. There was only one thing that House had on his mind- bringing Chase back. His conflict with Wilson, the chewing-out he was going to get from Cuddy, it all could wait. Nothing was more important at this moment in time than Chase.

It was only halfway through the second day of Chase's mandatory hospital stay, and from what House had heard, both Foreman and Cameron had attempted to visit him in that first day. They had been unable to, as Chase had been drugged into the depths unconsciousness. This thought had unsettled House, and brought him to the conclusion that maybe what he was doing was right after all. The thought of Chase lying still on a bed from drugs pumping through his veins was a more pleasant thought than the wounds carved into his skin.

But at the thought of his employee being subdued in such a way brought a sick feeling to House's gut. The young intensivist was always fierce and independent; having everything stolen from him by the effects of a needle in his arm had to have been near unbearable. House also knew that if they had to resort to using drugs to subdue Chase, he was putting up a struggle, and posing a severe harm to himself. Today was the day, however, that House hoped to right all of those wrongs.

House knew well enough that his methods were unorthodox, if nothing else. In fact, after the planned actions of today, his total moral compass would be called into question. But after hours in Chase's house, and even longer in his own apartment contemplating right and wrong, House had formulated this as the most solution he could implement immediately, one that would hopefully spare Chase any more unnecessary agony.

If anyone asked, House had already formulated a justification; he had done all he was about to do to get his doctor back. Not because he cared about Chase, not because he wanted him to get better, but because he needed a doctor back on the team. He needed that benefit- and a self-servicing act was something that he was more likely to do than anything else.

That couldn't be farther from the truth. Of course, Chase's value as a doctor was important to House, but this time, that wasn't the most important thing. Chase was more than a doctor; he was a valuable coworker, one with complex feelings, and an important part of House's life, however often fought to deny that truth. He did truly care about each of his fellows, and to see that Chase had been suffering so greatly had brought him to absolute agony. It was nothing less than unbearable to see his mutilated skin, to watch the flickering pain in Chase's wide eyes. It was a feeling that drove House to near insanity, made his skin crawl with doubt and discomfort.

With his last night spent so awfully, in the throes of his own misery, House was left utterly alone. Wilson normally would have visited him at his home after such a rough day, asked how he was feeling, then offered to go out for drinks. That's how it always was- the oncologist acted as the overly-cautious mother hen, always checking to ensure that House wasn't in any danger. Last night, however, his best and only friend had been absent. House had been left to his own devices, his own time to formulate a plan for how to handle the chaos that had occurred the previous day. This time, the absence of a guardian had left House no dire consequences- it had only left him with time. Time was just as valuable to him at this point, for he had been able to go to the lengths of formulating a plan to get Chase back, to bring the doctor to his senses.

Standing still as stone in the elevator, House looked at no one, cast no stray glances at those that shared the small confinement. He waited patiently as they filtered out, departing on their various floors. Soon he was alone, and the doors opened to reveal a floor just two above his usual workspace.

Miraculously, House found that his confidence hadn't been shaken. With this feeling still strong inside of him, his expression remained unchanging as he walked into the main reception area of the psych ward. House went up to the desk in the center of the floor, and glanced down at the woman sitting at the computer. With his normal tone, still neutral, he demanded her attention with his usual sense of self-importance.

"I'm here to see Dr. Chase. Which room is he in?" The woman stared up at him, seemingly incredulous of his appearance in front of her. House knew that for such a reaction, he had no one but himself to blame. His reputation in the hospital was less that favorable, even amongst those staff that he did not regularly interact with. Therefore the icy tone in which she responded didn't scald his ego too terribly.

For the first few moments, she seemed reluctant to give House the information he wanted, and after a curt reminder that he was indeed one of the best doctors in the hospital, she had threatened to call Cuddy on him. Though this initially stirred some panic, he was able to reign in his attitude, and in the end, he did get the number to the room where Chase was being held.

As House walked forward, the weight in his pocket grew ever heavier, as though he had a block of lead nestled up against his body. He knew the protocol- one of the floor's security guards would escort him to the room, check him for any weapons or drugs, and then supervise his interactions with the patient. House knew everything; he knew the protocol, and he had his plans had accounted for every possible nuance, even using some of the more inconvenient rules to his advantage.

Despite the fact that the man leading him to Chase's room was large and broad shouldered, House knew that he wouldn't put up much of a struggle. No one ever expected a cripple to have any strength, or to use any sort of physical means for confrontation. Each of these thoughts were carefully added and calculated into House's plan. As they neared the room, House slid his left hand into his jacket pocket, and gently nudged the cap off the syringe he had nestled in his pocket. He grasped it firmly between his fingers, assuring that it would not slip from his grasp when the time came to use it. As soon as they got to Chase's door, House put his cane over his wrist, reaching for the door as though he were ignorant of policy. The man escorting him reached a hand forward, seemingly trying to stop him as he hastily explained.

"I'm sorry sir, I have to check you for any drugs or weapons before you can see the patient" he cautioned in an authoritative voice, but House was too committed. With a burst of energy summoned from the very pit of his stomach, House flung the door to the room open, and pulled the needle from his pocket. As quickly as he could move the needle, he swung it in an arc into the man's upper arm, feeling it sink into its intended target. There wasn't even a sound other than a grunt escaping the man's mouth as House depressed the plunger, emptying the clear liquid into the man's body in one fluid motion. The door to the room was completely opened by the time that this act was completed, bathing the hall with the bright lights from inside the room. In mere seconds the guard's body was slumped on the floor, the man rendered completely unresponsive by the cocktail of drugs that House had just forced into his system. Now that the door was swung completely open, House was given a clear view of Chase in a hospital bed, the attractive blond gaping at the scene which had just unfolded in the threshold to the hall.

Thankfully, the body had careened forward into the room, so House was able to lean down and pull it completely into the room, and shut the door behind himself, in just a matter of seconds. It seemed that it took this long for Chase to gather his words, and close his mouth, which had been agape at House's sudden appearance and violent actions.

"House… What are you doing here?" Chase rasped, his voice seemingly worn. As per usual, House ignored him, probing the downed guard's neck for a pulse before standing up straight again, giving Chase yet another once over with his icy blue eyes.

Before House began his well-planned speech, he was forced to assess the situation and gauge just how he should proceed with his prepared course of action. He noted the restraints across Chase's arms and legs, holding him securely to the bed with padded leather, an assurance he couldn't move his arms or legs. Sniffing, and ignoring the weight pressed against his back, House moved over to the bed and started undoing the restraints that had been holding Chase steadfast.

"House!" Chase repeated again, distress obviously rising as he strained against the few restraints holding him tight. Still House soldiered on, finally releasing Chase's arms, and stepping back from the bedside without so much as a word to his employee. Chase rose to a sitting position the moment he was completely freed, and House stared at him with intent curiosity. There was confusion and fear swimming in Chase's eyes, along with a fair deal of pain. House cursed his own ignorance, his own inability to see this agony earlier on. It was blindingly obvious now that Chase was suffering and had been for quite some time- it was his own ignorance that had blinded him to it, his inability to swallow his pride and express genuine emotion to those that mattered most.

"House!" Chase practically yelled this time, voice cracking as it hit a high pitch. Chase's eyes darted frantically to the body that was slumped in the corner of his room, then back to House, pupils alight with the bright sheen of fear. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"To try and right a wrong" House started, the words bitter as they came off his tongue. He wasn't used to anything even akin to an apology, but he had played through this enough times in his head. He knew what he had to do, and that was exactly what he was going to do, no matter the fact that the words felt like acidic poison searing his flesh. But he was in too deep now, so he continued on, swallowing back his pride. "I'm here because it's my fault you're in here. I know I should've seen this earlier, we both know I should have. If I had only asked how you were doing, maybe showed that you mattered to me, you wouldn't have ended up here. I know I was far from kind to you, and I know that if I had changed my ways, if even for a little, your life would be much better off."

It was obvious to the diagnostician that Chase was taken aback by these words, as tough as they were to get off his chest. The shock was something that House had been counting on; even though Chase had hid a few large secrets, how he would respond and react to things was not a surprise. This reaction was something that House had counted on-by putting up his softest personality, Chase would be weakened by shock, surprise. This was where House would strike, to the very root of the pain, to free Chase from it once and for all.

"I know that you did what you did so you didn't have to feel pain anymore. You used pain to get rid of the pain. I know what it's like to fear pain, to live with it constantly, and I know that I don't deal with it the best way either. But I can't just sit here and watch you destroy yourself." House continued, and he would have carried on longer with his pre-planned speech, but Chase cut him off angrily in an outburst that seemed to tear itself from the very center of Chase's war-torn heart.

"NO. You don't have _any_ idea what this is like. We have different problems, different reasons. It's not your fault, House, that I have issues. This is how I deal with my issues, and it's not hurting anyone else but me. I don't see why it's anyone else's business what I do with my body" he hissed, eyes narrowed with rage.

This time, it was House's turn to fall silent, stunned by what Chase had said. He knew there was so much more beneath the surface, things that Chase wasn't touching on, even things that House couldn't plan for. This turn of events, Chase's unforeseen rage, had not been a planned response of House's well formulated plan. But as a world-class doctor, House was capable of thinking on his feet, though with such spontaneity, he couldn't help but let his usual sarcasm slip into his response.

"Not hurting anyone else? Are you blind? Cameron was worried to tears over your sorry ass, and Foreman won't so much as talk to me after what I've done to put you here. And what about me? It's not like I don't feel a damn thing when I see you here. Believe it or not, I feel pain for what you've done to yourself. Your actions, they had consequences you couldn't ever imagine. This has hurt a lot of people that care about you, people that you didn't want to admit cared about you. I know that we weren't there to support you like we should have, but Cameron, Foreman, they care. Hell, I'll admit it, even I care" he spat, looking at the floor, anything to avoid meeting Chase's eyes in a sudden display of vulnerability. Those were words he hadn't quite planned on coming out of his mouth, but they had slipped in the wave of emotion that had overwhelmed him.

"You don't care" Chase said, the pitch of his tone rising, eyes widening even further with stunned disbelief, tainted with offense. "You've never cared. It's not that you didn't ask what was wrong, or that you didn't coddle me like some parent figure. It's that you went out of your way to insult me, to make me miserable, at any chance you could find. Any weak spot I had, you attacked it, even if you knew I was having a hard day, if I was suffering. You show the same to Cameron and Foreman, nothing other than cruelty or indifference, treating us like idiots, pretending you're the only one who knows how to run the show. It doesn't matter if I solve the case, if I come up with the best response during a differential. You wouldn't give a compliment if I walked up to you with a cure for cancer. I don't even know why you're here right now. This is my mess, my problem. I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout. _Alone_ , like always."

"I do care!" House roared, reaching up and yanking his jacket off, tossing it to the floor. Beneath it, he was wearing nothing more than a t-shirt, and thin lines snaked their way up his forearms, fresh wounds made by the blade of a knife. They were shallow, nearly the dimension of a papercut, done with finesse. While sitting in agony over his choices the night before, House had toyed with the blade, opening thin ribbons in his own arms, just enough to feel the sting, just enough to drive himself to screams at the thought of how long Chase had been inflicting pain. But this was a new stage of vulnerability, of openness, and it didn't seem as though Chase could do anything to stare at House's form, but House didn't give too long for the realization of reality to set in.

Wasting not even one precious second, House reached to his back, yanking the long knife from where it was tucked in the waistband of his pants. That was where it had been lodged the whole morning, snugly pressed against the small of his back, with the foolish choice of nothing covering the blade. But as soon as he had grasped the handle in his palm, he brought it up in front of himself, as though it were an object of sacred importance. In a way, it was. He held it up for Chase to see, the very same blade that the young man had been using to harm himself, the knife that House had snatched from beside his sink the previous night.

It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, evidenced by not only the silence, but the way that Chase's face tightened with pain, his body still as a statue. A pin could have dropped, and it would have sounded like a gunshot. There was nothing other than dead silence as the hospital lights glinted off the silver blade, the same one that had inflicted so many nights of pain, refracting the sterile beams with blinding intensity.

"Chase, listen to me" House growled, his voice deathly soft. "I care. Cameron cares. Foreman cares. I can promise you that I would rather be stuck in this room, strapped to a bed, than you. The last thing I ever want it for any pain to reach you."

Seeing that Chase had no reply other than a stunned, open mouth, House took a shaky step forward, and held the handle of the knife out to Chase. The surgeon stared at the blade as though it would strike out at him suddenly, dealing him an unwarranted fatal blow by simply being in the presence of such a heinous device. This time, House didn't let the blonde's display of pain stop him in his tracks, ignoring how his own arm was trembling as the events unfolded.

"I'd rather you take your pain out on me. Take this, and hurt me however you want to hurt yourself. Because every time you turned that blade on yourself, you may as well have been hurting me. So just spare yourself, and take it straight to me. I know that I'm the reason you've suffered for so long, and for that, I'm sorry. Please, Chase, do what you need to do, and get rid of all your pain. Take it out on me."

House knew what would happen next, he was sure of the outcome from an entire night spent agonizing over hundreds of possible encounters. Although it had been smoother in his head, the unexpected turns along the way had helped him to his end goal, and had not diverted him from the biggest plan of action he had left. House knew that Chase was stunned into silence at this point, mind alight with confusion and shock at House's sudden heartfelt confession. It was because of this emotions that the young fellow's mind would be clear, and he would be able to weigh his options with valued merit, The brilliant doctor would see how the tables had turned, and would fold beneath House's will.

The outcome in House's head was like a movie, and it was coming to life right in front of his eyes. There was nothing but adrenaline in his veins as Chase took the blade in shaky hands, staring at it with wide eyes. It was as though Chase knew the weight of the sins that such a thin piece of silver could carry, and he was watching them all flash before his pain-filled eyes. House was holding his breath, waiting for Chase to cry, for Chase to break, any indication that he was going to give up the blade and work towards a life free of pain. The Aussie strived with the sole goal of relieving pain, and would do his very best not to inflict it on other people. That was how Chase always had been, even if the fallout had come at his own expense. It was in that way that the intensivist was unique, and just another reason that House knew he needed him, whole and unharmed.

The wide blue eyes looked up to meet his own, and House studied Chase, seeing fear and contemplation flitting through his eyes. Any second now Chase would take that knife, say something weakly, and give up. House was sure of it, he had gone over this scene a hundred times in his head. Chase wouldn't have the will to hurt someone that he still cared about, no matter what they had done to him. He would see the error of his ways, and he would give up, collapse, fold in on himself in a weakness that House could exploit for Chase's own good. And then he saw Chase's lips parting, and he knew that the doctor was about to say something. And indeed he did, softly, meekly, as his hand tightened around the knife, knuckles going white as he did.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone, House. I just want the pain to end. I'm sorry."

And with that, Chase closed his eyes, and tilted his chin up just slightly. House didn't know what was happening until it was too late.

It was as though each movement was stuck in slow motion, and House's whole world was frozen. With his neck open and exposed, Chase brought the sharp side of the blade up to his throat and dug down, drawing it across from one side to the other, creating a gaping gash through the skin with the artistry that only a surgeon could manage. In the same breath, it was a precision that only a surgeon could inflict with deadly intent.

"NO!" House screamed, snapping out of the utter stillness he had been trapped in. Abandoning any thoughts of his own well-being, House lunged forward as Chase's body crumpled backwards as though it were a discarded toy. The blood soaked knife now fell to the floor, released from limp fingers, bright arterial blood spurting from Chase's neck with alarming speed. His cane clattered to the floor as he lunged forward, forgetting any thoughts of his own pain, of his potential consequences. House pushed down on the wound on Chase's neck, feeling the blood bubbling beneath his fingers with surprising warmth.

"I need some help in here! Somebody help!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, a plea that abandoned any sort of pride he had once dreamed of holding. Staring down at Chase's body, he watched the young man's eyes flickering shut as he tried desperately to get the bleeding to stop with nothing more than manual pressure. House couldn't breathe, he couldn't see straight, and he couldn't even hear the screams of nurses behind him as they rushed in. He knew that Chase needed an operating room faster than he could ever get one opened, with the very essence of life leaking out between his shaking fingers. There were a million things that he could have been thinking, a hundred things he could have said, but instead there was nothing. All he could feel was the blood pulsing hot against his skin as his youngest employee began to die in his arms.

 **Thank you all** **SO MUCH** **! The overwhelming support I'm getting on this story is just astonishing. Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story.** **I know that this is a tough spot to leave Chase and House in, so I'll be updating as soon as I can. The time that you all take, just to read this, and even to review, just stuns me. Thank you so incredibly much for your generosity and kindness.**


	9. Chapter 9

House would have given anything in the world to be able to run down to the OR with the nurses, his hand gripping Chase's, trying to ignore how he was growing increasingly cold as he grew closer to expiring. But that wasn't reality; still crippled, House was confined to the room where the ghastly act had transpired just seconds before. Blood was smeared across the tiles, on House's hands, sprayed up in bright red streaks across his face. The knife was still lying on the floor, untouched, stained with crimson. There was no one there with him; any spare hands on the floor had rushed Chase down for emergency surgery, hoping to save his life.

Head spinning, House slumped completely limp against the wall, staring down at his hands as though they were someone else's. The reality that Chase's blood was all over him was still a truth that had to set in, the thought that he had given the man the knife that could potentially end his life. To see someone dying like that, right in front of him, someone he cared about, had shaken him to his core.

He could have spent hours pondering where he had gone wrong, how he could have possibly analyzed all of the possible outcome so incorrectly. Chase's life had been hanging in the balance before he had ever walked into that room, and it seemed that House had done nothing more than give him an extra push over that ledge. Now, just because House had failed to analyze the true potential of damage, Chase was about to die.

After just a heartbeat of trying to catch his stolen breath, House reached out and grabbed his cane where it had fallen less than a minute prior. At this point, the last thing that mattered was the intense amount of pain that his leg was in. As he tried to grip the cane as he usually did, his hands slipped, too slick from the red liquid covering them. Gritting his teeth, House tried again, but his hand still slid down, rendering him unable to stand. Quickly as he could in absolute distress for Chase's well-being, he wiped his palms hastily across his shirt front, trying to smear away as much of the crimson as he could. This motion effectively stained the front of his shirt with a deep ruby hue, but now when he tried to get a supportive grip, he could manage to remain steady.

Standing took in incredible amount effort, and it took even more strength for the first step. His legs were trembling, the right one threatening to give out if he dared place too much weight on flesh and bone instead of an artificial wooden support. Even as he moved those first few steps forward, it was still as though he were trapped in a dreamlike state, one that rendered him unable to think properly. Nothing was in his mind, or everything; he didn't know. The static was overwhelming, the feeling of blood trapped between his fingers, the sight of Chase's throat open and bleeding. The threshold to the door was only a few meters away, but it may as well have been a mile or more.

Slowly, he made his way forward out into the hall, blinded momentarily by the brightness of the lights that seemed to shine directly out into his eyes. Surprisingly, there was no one there to stop him from leaving, to hold him accountable. He figured that someone, a nurse, an orderly, anyone at all, would be waiting for him. Whether it would be to question him, to bring him to Cuddy, to haul him off to prison, to do something, he did not expect to leave of his own willpower. He had potentially caused a man's death, and he was still walking free.

Deciding to take advantage of this fact, House wandered back towards the elevators, shaky as he was. Carefully avoiding the eyes of the nurse that sat at the front desk, House limped over to the lift, hoping she wouldn't notice as he waited. Just as the doors opened, however, he heard her crying out after him, telling him that he needed to stop. But that was hardly a deterrent- he had made it this far, and wasn't about to be stopped by some woman that was so terribly unobservant. He still stepped into the metal box, and jammed his finger against the door close button, letting them slide together just before she could arrive in the threshold to halt his journey before it had even begun.

It took only a few seconds to descend the two floors between the psych ward and his usual office. Though his body was tugging him towards the OR, his battered body acted on autopilot. His blood-soaked finger jammed against the button that would take him to his office, and he had no strength to argue with blind instinct. As the doors opened and revealed the same floor that he was so accustomed to, he tried to swallow back the bile rising in his throat, realizing that those few seconds of solitary reprieve were not enough, that he was not prepared for what might await him here.

It took all of his willpower to take another step, wander towards the glass-walled office that he knew all too well, try as he might to ignore the daunting presence. He stared in, looking at Foreman and Cameron as they sat at the table, flipping idly through patient files, seemingly awaiting his arrival. Aside from the empty chair at a usually full table, it was business as usual, sickeningly so. It was as though Chase had been no more than a warm body, just after one day, and now that the intensivist lay dying just a few floors below, House wanted to gag. And when he cast his eyes towards his own office, trying to push the image out of his mind, he saw Wilson standing in the corner pensively. This appearance was just as House had predicted earlier in the morning; Wilson would be waiting for him, first to assure his well-being, then to begin reprimanding once again.

Now that he was here, House wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run, avoid what was surely going to be a nasty conflict, if for no other reason than sparing himself the impending misery. But it was too late now- he was standing just outside his own office, covered in blood. There were going to be questions, anger, yelling, sooner or later. In the end, he would not be able to escape the destiny that he had laid out for himself, and he was going to be punished for his actions one way or another. House decided he would prefer sooner rather than later, and took the brave first step forward, putting his hand on his office door and swinging it open.

It hadn't even opened all the way when Wilson turned around, staring at House with anger filled eyes, fires flaring in their depts. The rage melted to anger instantaneously, and House wished that the oncologist didn't care so much, didn't immediately think that something terrible had happened to his friend. He wanted nothing but the yelling, he needed it to be over, so he could confess his sins and take his punishment, let the world know what he had done wrong.

"House! What happened?" Wilson exclaimed, those words full of concern the first to escape his mouth. Before House knew it, his friend was rushing over to see him, covering the distance between them. House put his hands up and prepared to push Wilson away, diverting his eyes to the floor out of shame, any hope to deter his friend from coming too close.

"Wilson, shut up, okay? Just shut up for a minute. I'm fine. This isn't my blood. It's Chase's" he managed to choke out, trying to drown the sound of misery with a guttural growl, but the façade couldn't fool his friend. Wilson halted where he was, a solid pace away from House, his lips parted in shock and confusion.

By this point in time, Cameron and Foreman had rushed in from the other office, just in time to hear House's words- it was as though he were a magnet that had attracted them from their work. Though Wilson's mouth was opened, indicating he was about to speak, it was Cameron's distress filled voice that hit House's ears first.

"I thought Chase was in the psych ward? What happened?" she seemed to cry, a sound that was like nails on a chalkboard to House's ears. Still in a daze from the magnitude of his own mistakes, a precious life hanging in the balance, House screwed his eyes tightly shut in an attempt to blink out those concern-filled eyes. It took all the strength he had to growl out the only words he knew she would care about, just enough to make her go away so he could suffer the wrath of anyone else.

"He's in an OR. Serious injuries." And that was enough for the blonde-haired doctor, just enough to cast her away for the time being. Cameron turned on her heel and bolted out of the office, and after a shake of his head, most likely in sheer disappointment, Foreman followed her. This left Wilson and House alone together, the silence biting into House like a ravenous creature. It was Wilson who had to break the silence in the end, his tone harsh and caustic.

"House, what the hell happened? Is Chase alright?"

"No, Wilson, he's not fucking alright" House retorted weakly, limping over to his desk and collapsing in the chair, surrendering his face into his hands. "It's my fault that he's dying right now. He's probably already dead, at the rate he was bleeding." The words stung his flesh to admit, but he couldn't withhold the truth now, now with Chase's life threatening to be as fleeting as a summer breeze.

"You need to tell me what happened up there" Wilson demanded, his tone both harsh and demanding, dripping with the authoritative pitch that House never liked. But this was all inevitable, so House gave in, letting the information flow freely from his mouth, his composure escaping him as he confessed.

"I was feeling like shit all last night about how I treated him. I knew it was my fault he ended up there. If I had just been a bit nicer, he would've been just fine. But he wasn't, and I wasn't. So last night I broke into his house, checked things out. I realized things were bad, real bad. So I came up with a plan. I was going to find a way to, to talk him out of hurting himself ever again."

"What the hell did you do?" Wilson demanded again, inserting his comment in at the very first moment House paused. "You don't get a guy dying because you want to talk him out of it."

"I know that" House hissed back, staring at the blood smeared across his front just to avoid Wilson's piercing gaze. "I figured I'd do it by taking the knife he used to cut himself up there, and giving him the choice to either hurt me or give it up. I was convinced he'd just set it down, realize the error of his ways, but he… He just apologized, grabbed the knife, and slit his throat" House managed to whisper, hating the way his voice cracked at the effort to fight back tears. Wilson was silent for just a moment, but when he spoke, there wasn't anger in his voice. It had been reduced to a deadly whisper, one that sent shivers up House's spine, the intensity shaking straight to his core.

"You brought a knife into Chase's room, knowing what he had done to himself, and just expected him to give it up? He was sedated for almost a day, and he was restrained. You had to have released him from those restraints, which the very well trained hospital staff determined were necessary to protect him from himself. I have no words for your absolute stupidity. If he dies, that's blood on your hands. That's his body, all of it on you. Do you have any idea how serious that is, House?"

"I do" the diagnostician muttered, but Wilson spoke again, his voice rising in pitch.

"No, I don't think you know. That's assisted suicide. That right there is jail time, House. Prison. You helped a man kill himself, but with how you did it, you might as well have been holding the knife yourself. If you could just act like a normal human being, we wouldn't have one of the hospital's most valued doctors bleeding out right now."

"I didn't know he would go that far. I never wanted him to die" House spat back, his vision swimming as he stared down at his blood soaked shirt. Wilson was obviously not in the mood to put up with any bullshit, so House couldn't help but flinch as his friend started to yell, a rare display of his temper.

"Think about it, House. You just killed a man"

"He's not dead yet!" House retorted, and before Wilson could give his own rebuttal, the door to the office was thrown open again, and a terror-stricken Cameron stood in the door, her body taking up most of the frame, tears streaking her face as she spoke.

"He's about to be if he doesn't get some more blood. The ER basically exhausted our bank after a pileup on the highway. There's none left that's a suitable match for his type, and he's going to die from blood loss if they don't get him some right now. They managed to stop the bleed from his carotid, but he's dying, House. I don't know anyone who's a match, and he's about to die." Her voice cracked as she finished, and she looked down to the ground, her hair falling in front of her face.

This was enough to stun both House and Wilson into silence. But after what she said, House needed no more time to think. He knew that he had no choice. The letters from Chase's file danced in his memory, and his heart began to pound at the thought. Getting to his feet immediately, House limped over to Cameron, giving Wilson a forlorn look over his shoulder, a look filled with both agony and defeat.

"I'm about to go fix the mess that I made, and save the life you think I took. I'm a match for Chase. You can finish yelling at me later, I'm about to get a little busy saving his life."

And with that, House walked out of his office, guilt and fear and sorrow burning in his veins as he followed his employee as quickly as he could. He would gladly give all of his blood if it meant that he could right this wrong, if even just a little. He would sacrifice all he had for Chase, just so that the intensivist might have a chance to live.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I know that this strays out from canon with the blood type thing (I'm pretty sure I remember House as AB, universal recipient, which means that unless the entire hospital blood bank was exhausted, Chase could have had a match if he really was the same blood type as House, and anyone could have served as an adequate match. But this is fiction, and I like a little drama...) Anyway, a serious thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. You are all the best! Any questions, concerns, or critique, feel free to drop a review or shoot me a PM. Feel free to be mean, I like some good criticism. Thanks again!**


	10. Chapter 10

Wilson truly wished that he could have brought himself to see Chase sooner, but he couldn't bear to think of the blond-haired man being stitched together on a cold metal table, bleeding profusely as a team of surgeons rushed to save his life, a life pouring out in bright red on their hands. He also couldn't bear the thought of looking into House's eyes, that piercing blue rippling with sadness, anger, and hatred, both for the world and for himself.

All that Wilson could bring himself to do was sit in his office, stewing in thought, although he had a growing list of patients to see. There was too much in his mind, an incredible storm of horrors and of gore-filled nightmares. He couldn't imagine House's face as he held out the knife. Part of him imagined House grinning like the Joker, edging Chase on towards the edge, although he knew that was never his friend's intent. ,It made him utterly nauseous to think of Chase's head leaning back, those wonderful blue eyes staring up towards the ceiling, and the knife digging into the tender skin of his throat. He had known that Chase was hurting, enough to take the blade to his skin, but Wilson had foolishly assumed that just because he hadn't tried yet, Chase wasn't suicidal.

 _What a stupid assumption_ he thought to himself, surrendering his head into his hands. The thought of the blood, the brush with death, the red smeared all across House's body, all of it reminded him too closely of the scene he had been met with just two nights before. The blood soaked towels he had nudged aside with his foot, the cuts oozing blood down Chase's abdomen. He had tried, hadn't he? He did what he was supposed to do- sought help for the victim in the only way he knew how, attempted to save a life that was more than worth saving. The only place he had gone wrong was having House as a friend, and making no effort to spare the victim from this potential threat.

 _But how could you have known?_ Wilson reminded himself, remembering his own shock when House had admitted to him where he had gone wrong. Very rarely did House have ill intentions, if ever. Everything he tried to do, no matter how unethical or unusual, was what he believed was for the better good of the person he was trying to help. That was just his way, and it was terribly unfortunate that he had been so foolish, and Chase had been so broken.

With a small groan under his breath, Wilson knew he couldn't put off the imminent any longer. It did no one any good when he sat in his office and imagined the worst of the worst, and let the guilt eat him alive. Getting to his feet, Wilson walked out of his office, and began working his way down to the recovery room where Chase would be staying. Though he would have denied it, he knew that he was taking smaller steps, each stride taking slightly longer than he would have normally walked. His stomach was cramped with the pain of dread, and it was as though his body was pulling him back to his office desperately, telling him to do anything but keep going on.

But eventually he reached post-op, and lamented that Chase hadn't been given the luxury of a private room. The only thing that separated the vulnerable doctor from the rest of the world was a thin curtain drawn around his bed, giving him privacy from the men to either side, though not from his colleagues. The nurses all glanced at the solemn space each time that they passed, and Wilson knew that they may as well have been gawking at a caged animal. There was no way that Cuddy would deny Chase a private room, one of her hospital's most valued and treasured doctors, but yet he was still here, exposed for the whole world to see. For a few moments, Wilson felt as though he was as bad as the rest, staring at Chase with an inhuman sort of distance.

Taking one last deep breath, Wilson walked into the curtained off space, trying to close the distance between himself and Chase. Growing closer, he examined a sight that he truly wished he would never have to relive. Chase was lying on the bed, his form surprisingly gaunt under the thin hospital sheets, the light blue clinging to his body, showing the bony contours of his build. It was almost as though he were sleeping- his eyes were closed, and if the rest of the scene was omitted, it would have been as though he were doing nothing more than resting peacefully in his own bed.

This picturesque scene would have been easy to believe if there weren't sterile white bandages wrapped around Chase's neck, like pale fingers choking him. Though the bandages were smooth against the blonde's tan skin, it was obvious that they did not belong, that they were a glaring reminder of a terrible wound. Wilson felt as though he were truly going to be sick, once more imagining the gaping gash that was open and bleeding arterial blood just over an hour earlier.

Beneath those bandages, he could imagine the crisscross pattern of stitches through tender skin, sutures holding together a torn artery just beneath the paper thin surface. Wilson knew that the damage had to have been serious, and couldn't imagine how the surgical team had managed to save his life as they did. It must have been more than just a feat- it must have been close to a miracle.

It was only at this thought that Wilson sent a silent prayer of thanks to House for being available when he was. Without the blood that House had so willingly given, Wilson knew in his heart that Chase wouldn't have made it. There were few men who could tell the tale of cutting their carotid artery open and surviving, but here Chase was, his monitor beeping steadily with his heart rate. Whether or not Chase would ever speak of his deed was unknown, but he would be able to speak again.

 _I guess that's thanks to House_ Wilson thought bitterly, remembering the look on the diagnosticians face as he limped out of the office. He had gone forward with tightly drawn lips, blood still covering his face, his hands, and his clothes. The bright red stood out against his garments, a clear warning sign to everyone of what he had done.

Resisting the urge to groan, Wilson sunk into the plastic chair that sat by the bedside, his fingers itching to grab the chart from where is sat at the edge of the bed. But he knew that those sheets of paper would give him nothing of more meaning than what he could see as he stared down at Chase's body. He didn't need to know the damage done to the life-giving arteries that pulsed weakly through Chase's neck, or just how the surgeons had struggled to save the life of one of their own. He didn't need to know how much blood House had sacrificed while sitting at the edge of this same bed, desperately urging the dark hue to go from his body into that of his employee. These were numbers, but they were also feelings, ones that made his chest constrict and brought him trouble breathing

Still lost in thought, Wilson couldn't help but jump when he finally heard the curtain drawn aside, just to be met with the eyes of one of the nurses working this room. She gave him a small smile of recognition, and went over to look at Chase's monitors before speaking.

"It's a shame what happened to him, isn't it?" she murmured softly, obviously upset by the state that Chase was in. "You always dread working on one of your own, especially when it happens like this. This poor guy hardly stood a chance. You're lucky you didn't see him earlier, this place was an absolute mess trying to save his life. He would have bled out on the table if House hadn't been down here. I might not like the man, but he did a good thing today" she finished as she jotted a few numbers down on Chase's chart before replacing it and turning to walk out. Wilson hadn't bothered to reply- there was no need. He knew what he knew, and nothing was going to change his mind.

The curtain opened again just mere seconds later, and Wilson was much less startled by the appearance of a familiar face in the enclosed area. Cameron made her way in, a coffee gripped tightly in her hand, her eyes puffy and red. Wilson stood immediately, offering her the chair at the immediate recognition that she needed the support beneath her more than he did. Her legs seemed to struggle to support her weight, and her hands were shaking.

She looked at the chair, and then to Wilson, her eyes watering again. "It's awful, isn't it?" She whispered, as though she were speaking of something terribly taboo, as though she would be struck for so much as mentioning reality. The weight heavy on his heart, Wilson nodded, not wishing to incriminate his feelings so easily, though he was certain they were written plain on his face. He could feel his own brow stitched tightly together, lips drawn in a thin line. It wouldn't take a mind reader to understand what he felt looking at this young, promising doctor, who had hours earlier tried to take his own life.

The most bitter reminder of this was the padded restraints that were holding Chase to the bed, even though he was sedated. He wouldn't be spending much longer down here- he would be transferred back up to the psych ward for more close and specialized care once he was out of the most immediate danger. Although Wilson would have been content pondering this tragedy on his own, it seemed as though Cameron had no intention of staying silent, voicing her feelings and thoughts as though they were for the world to see.

"This is all House's fault" she hissed beneath her breath, knuckles going white as her grip on the thin paper cup increased in intensity. "If he had never gotten this close to him, if he had just realized how sensitive he really was, if he had never been so incredibly stupid-"

"He might be dead by now" Wilson cut her off, suddenly defensive of his friend, despite House's faults and hand in the situation. "I know you see it as House's fault that Chase is here like this today. And it is, you can't deny that. He was the one that set him up for this mess. But Chase could have done this at his home, no operating room just a minute away. If he was suicidal this morning, he was last night, and far before that. If he would so easily give himself up into something as terrible as this, this morning was not the first time he thought about or desired to take his own life. And if he had tried something in the past, House wouldn't have been there to stop the bleeding, or to give up some of his own blood just so that Chase could live. Hopefully this will let Chase get the help that he really needs, and it gave us that opportunity to save his life. We can be angry over the specifics later. Right now, we need to make sure Chase heals and gets the best care he can possibly get. You can't spend your energy being mad at House. Chase is the one who needs all your attention and support."

This seemed enough to silence Cameron for a few moments, terribly long seconds where she stared at him with watering eyes. Her eyes flickered with what had to have been a hundred emotions, contemplating what Wilson had just expressed. Then it seemed that she was defeated, her anger waning as she stared at the ground, her left hand gently moving up to touch Chase's arm. Before her mouth opened, she ran her thumb gently along Chase's skin, as though her mere touch would injure him.

"Just because he might have saved Chase's life doesn't mean he's not the one that put it at risk in the first place. I know that I didn't ask him about his different behavior, or ask him if he was doing alright, but I didn't put the knife in his hand. That was House. I won't stop being angry at him, but I'm at least thankful he was here to save Chase's life."

To this, Wilson figured that her feelings were fair. His own anger at House had yet to ebb, but he just couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than sorrow as Chase lay unmoving in the hospital bed, the blond hair falling gently on the pillow. With the bandages around his neck, Wilson knew that Chase had a long road ahead, and a recovery that would be intensely painful. The pain wouldn't just be for the intensivist, however- it would be for all of those that care so much about him. Wilson hoped that included House, wherever he was.

"Speaking of House" he mentioned gently, noting that he had yet to see his friend anywhere on this floor. Cameron only shrugged, shaking her head.

"I don't know where he is. He spent about forty minutes down here, giving his blood, and then as soon as he was done, he got up and walked away. I didn't bother following him. Chase has been here with me ever since. I don't know where Foreman is either. Sorry, Wilson, I wish I could help you more" she offered gently, and Wilson only shrugged. It wasn't a surprise that House had disappeared after such an awful morning.

"Thank you, Cameron. If you see him, just let me know. I'll be in my office" he said, and turned to walk out of the curtained-off area, realizing he couldn't bear to be there any longer. Not around the machines, by Chase's shallow breathing, the bandages constricting tight around his neck. He couldn't do it, and he couldn't think straight. The future was still dark, but as dark as Wilson felt inside, he knew there had to be hope. He had to feel it, for Chase's sake, he had to have it, all for the sake of the beloved intensivist.

He knew all too well from time in the cancer ward. If there wasn't hope, there wasn't life. Someone without hope was as good as dead, whether that hope was their own or from those that sat by their bed. Wilson had to hope, for Chase's sake.

The true agony came in the fact that he knew Chase was lying in that bed, just a breath away from death, because there hadn't been that hope. Wilson had seen it in Chase's eyes, that flat, hollow, lifeless stare. There was no light, no fire that said Chase wanted something more, that he desired, that he had someone pulling for him. He had felt like he had nothing, and now he was almost dead.

Walking back to his office in a trance, Wilson swore that he would fix this, that he would do all he could to bring Chase back from the dead. But he just didn't know what he could do to restore life to someone who no longer wanted to live, or if he even had the strength.

 _My god, Chase_ he thought, willing his legs to stay up beneath him. _I'm sorry._

 **Thank you all so much for reading!** **** **I seriously appreciate every single follow, favorite, and review I have received on this story. I'm sorry that it's taking me so long to update. I recently got a cast put on my right arm, and a splint on my left, which makes it quite difficult to write. Thank you so much for your patience! I'll be updating as soon as I can.**


	11. Chapter 11

_It hurts. Oh god it hurts. I can't breathe. I don't think I can breathe. Something's pulling, something's cutting my neck, something's burning. Oh god it hurts._

 _It hurts._

 _It hurts._

 _I guess that means I'm not dead. Or maybe I am. They always said that you could feel pain in hell. That's where you go if you take your own life, isn't it? The good book says so. You cannot take what the father gave you, the most precious gift of life, the soul that Christ gave his life to save…_

 _It's too bright. This can't be hell. I want to open my eyes. I hear sounds, people talking, people coughing. But it's too bright. This can't be the hospital. I took a knife to my throat. The carotid artery, the blood, the operating room was too far away._

 _I lost too much blood._

 _The orderlies were talking about a bad crash. The ER was swamped._

 _I couldn't have got an OR open in time._

 _There would have been no blood for me. No space. Not enough men._

 _I'd be dead. I should be dead. There's a burning in my arm, a needle pulling at my skin. I can feel it. I guess that means I'm not dead. I'm really not dead._

 _Fuck._

 _Why aren't I dead?_

 _God no, I have to keep my eyes closed. Those lights, I can feel them burning through my eyelids. There's too much pain in my throat. Everything feels like it's falling apart. I know I was just under, but god, this burns. I don't want the pain. I want water. I want sleep. I want to die._

"Chase!"

 _Whose voice is that? Why are they talking to me? I can't do this. No one can know. I'm too weak, I'm too pitiful, a surgeon who can't even take his own life with a good solid cut. I can't breathe. I can't breathe and it all hurts. I can't live any longer. I can't live with myself. I can't do this._

"Chase!"

 _Please stop screaming my name. Please. Stop. Leave me to die. It hurts. I don't want to be here. Don't do this to me. Let me go, alone. I've been trouble enough. I've hurt enough. Let me go. Let me go. Let me go. I don't want those lights, those sounds, the pain. Let me go._

 _-H-O-U-S-E-_

Wilson had given up halfway through his last shift, far too frayed to carry on with any worth. His stomach had been in painful knots for the duration of the afternoon, and he had been left nearly unable to work through his personal distress. All that he could bring himself to do was push quickly through his last few patients with an artificial smile plastered on his face. Once those tasks came to a close, he retreated to his office like a wounded animal, hoping to have a chance to nurse his emotional wounds.

Yet as much as he had been repelled earlier, it was now as though the recovery rooms were calling his name wistfully. The dimly lit rooms laying just two floors down were magnetized, begging the oncologist to venture down for just one more visit as the day was waning. Night was falling, and most of the regular staff had been drawn back to their homes, where they could escape the chaos that came with staffing a hospital. Wilson had even heard that Cameron had retired for the night, without a word about House or Foreman reaching his ears. This tormented pondering and curiosity eventually led Wilson's weary feet down to where Chase was recovering. Supposedly the poor man still drugged into blissful unconsciousness, which was as much as Wilson could wish for him.

It was somewhat regretfully that Wilson settled into the small chair beside Chase's bedside, the forlorn piece of furniture the only place for worried families to rest over those they cared for. He couldn't help but dislike the sound of the weak plastic shifting beneath his body, but he even more intensely disliked the feelings that rushed over him at a second inspection of Chase's body. It was no less burden to bear than it had been earlier in the day, or two nights prior. The threat of being sick washed over him momentarily, until he forced himself to look away as it passed. He was hardly able to swallow down what he had already attempted to make peace with, no matter how half-hearted the efforts were. There was simply no way to make peace with death, nor with the thoughts someone near and dear had brushed so close of their own will.

In the peace of night, the usual din of the hospital had dulled to a tolerable level of coughing and wheezing, with the constant static background of machines beeping. It was almost serene enough that Wilson could once again believe that Chase was just sleeping peacefully, the dim lights overhead just enough to illuminate his body, take away his pain. Nothing else was here, except for the silence and the stillness that came with Chase's rest, nothing else to behold beneath the nightlight of the hospital ceiling.

There was nothing Wilson wanted more than to see Chase smiling again, the bright sparkle of life returned to his wonderful eyes, which had always been so warm and inviting. A smile that was worth more than the world, a stunning look that had women practically falling into him. But more than anything, it was a smile that the world had always seen as genuine, as a beacon of warmth and hope, with a brilliant splash of sky in his irises to accompany joyous laughter. All that Wilson could do was hope that one day, he could see those expressions again, that uninhibited happiness and joy that had seemed to spring so freely from Chase's eyes. As Wilson still sat and watched, however, it seemed that his wishes were shattering. He was not watching the beloved doctor that took the burden away from man after man- he was watching hardly more than a corpse.

Torn from his lament by movement, Wilson's attention was drawn back to the bed he was sitting beside. Chase's eyelids were fluttering now, his eyes flickering back and forth behind his eyelids. Rigid now, Wilson sat in his chair with a stiff back, watching the muscles twitching in the face of the once-peaceful doctor. At first, the flickering eyelids were the only sign of life that Wilson could easily detect, but then Chase's lips parted and a subtle groan escaped, as though a wounded animal were giving a final cry for help.

"Chase?" Wilson whispered, unable to contain his apprehension at the thoughts of seeing life clearly manifesting in the intensivist's body once again. It was obvious that Chase was finally drawing out of his drug-induced stupor, his body giving off subtle yet visible signs of life, even beyond the strong breaths and rapidly moving eyes. It almost appeared as though Chase was fighting a silent fight, pulling himself away from the effects of the drugs that had been keeping him subdued. Once more, Wilson gently spoke out in the hopes of quietly bringing the doctor back to the world of the waking.

"Chase"

It was only to this second call that Chase's eyes finally slid open to more than a small slit, but even this was enough to make the blond wince back against his pillow. Despite this adverse reaction to even the slightest amount of light, to even see Chase open his eyes was an immense encouragement to Wilson, who felt his lips pull into a tight smile. The relief was difficult to manifest into an acceptable visage, but no expression could show the cool relief spreading through Wilson's veins as he watched this young man battle his way back into consciousness. Still blinking, Chase seemed to rasp and groan again, a guttural sound that prompted Wilson to grab for the water that was sitting on the small table beside the bed. Pouring from the pitcher into the cup as swiftly as he could, Wilson held the cup out to Chase, before realizing his mistake; Chase was still restrained to the bed for his own safety.

Only after he held this cup to Chase's lips and the wounded surgeon took a few reluctant sips did Wilson sit less rigidly, relieved to see the life in Chase's eyes once more. It was almost as if just half a cup of water had rejuvenated him from eternal rest. There was no feigning dead now- he was alive, breathing, and blinking with the pain of it all. There was most obviously pain, more obvious than all, but it meant that there was life, life that had conquered the whispers of death.

For a few moments after his thirst was quenched, Chase sat speechless, staring at Wilson with a slightly open mouth, and still wandering eyes. It was painful for Wilson to recognize the surprise that lit up in Chase's face; it was nothing less than surprise that he was still alive. The realization was obviously so sickening to him that Chase had to shut his eyes once again, resting his head back on the pillow with utter defeat. There was no more strain against his bonds, no more veins pulsing up against the skin with stress and anxiety. And just like that, Chase had made a swift return to being neighbors with death, not an ounce of will left in his body, no hope, no desire, just a broken toy. Collapsed in on himself, his mouth opened slightly, tongue moving with what had to have been a hundred questions, a hundred cries, yet it was just one word that escaped the intensivist's mouth.

"How." Chase rasped this in such a soft tone that Wilson was hardly able to capture it, the moment fleeting. He had been so consumed with his own visceral pain for the younger man, so much so that he had almost missed Chase's desperate, pleading question. But it was still there, faint, and Wilson knew just what Chase was asking, despite the simplicity. A wall of emotions, abounding questions, they all hid behind just that one word.

 _He's asking why he's still here. How he's possibly still alive._

Despite the temptations of a comforting lie on the tip of his tongue, Wilson knew that he couldn't withhold the truth, however bitter it might be. Chase had brushed too close with death for someone to deny him such a basic right as a truth, and good and honest truth. For someone who was hurting so desperately, the truth was as good as gold.

"The team of surgeons was good. They were good enough to save you in the little time that they had" Wilson admitted, pushing down a newfound temptation that was budding in his heart. The one worded question that he had been begging since the first night he had seen Chase's body cut open; why?

He knew that was the last thing in the world that Chase needed to hear, the last thing that anyone should direct his way. He had just woken up, alive, after being certain he was ending all he had ever been. Chase had been willing to throw away a life as a brilliant and deserving doctor, as a wonderful friend and colleague, all because of the pain he suffered. There was no need to rehash the pain- Chase had many long days and nights of therapy that would allow those wounds to heal in time. The one word, the double edged sword, that was an issue for another time, one where the wounds had begun to heal.

However, it seemed that the intensivist was not satisfied by the answer that Wilson had given, for the line on the heart monitor began to jump upwards, and Chase pulled against the restraints with what seemed to be as much strength as he could summon.

"But they're not that good. They're not. They didn't have enough time, not enough time to scrub up, not enough time to open an OR. No matter how good they are, they didn't have a damned shot at saving me" Chase muttered, his body shaking with emotions. "They just aren't that good. No one is good enough to save a dead man. Hell, I couldn't have fixed what I did to myself. "

"We have a brilliant team of surgeons, Chase. They put all of their efforts into saving you. No one could bear the thought of being without you" He stressed, trying to draw Chase out of his now self-involved brooding, which was turning the doctor's face red with fury. Perhaps if he could make the intensivist understand just what the hospital was willing to sacrifice for him, he would come to his senses. But it seemed as though these efforts were in vain.

"The nurses, the orderlies, they were talking when they passed my room" Chase muttered, as though he had lapsed into a trance, eyes unfocused. "A bad pileup on the highway. It was a mess. People dead and dying all over the ER. I knew that there wouldn't be enough space for another emergency. If somehow, anyhow, I could get myself close enough to dead there wasn't anything they could do." He didn't even pause as he rambled, a deeply unsettling confession that seemed to be escaping against his will.

"I know I put the knife deep enough to get the artery, I knew just where to put it, just how hard to cut down. I should have bled out within a minute or two, even if House did his best to make it stop. They wouldn't have any blood left in the stores, there wouldn't be an open OR, there wouldn't be a surgeon who could spare two minutes to stitch up some psych patient's bleeding neck. There's no way I should have been able to survive, I was sure of it. I knew, godammit I know I should be dead."

"The surgeons were good enough. And we had the blood, Chase. We had the blood" Wilson tried to soothe, though he knew that life was the last thing that Chase craved. There was no use in arguing praise for Chase's life when he had tried to take it away just hours earlier, those empty words would do no good now. The doctor was growing so distressed that Wilson was moments away from calling a nurse for help in subduing him, but at the mention of blood, Chase grew incredibly still.

"How?" he questioned again, his blue eyes wide and inquisitive, as though he were starved for a proper answer. "We're always short, and we're left with none after a bad accident. I shouldn't have had a single drop left. There was no hope for me. None. There's never enough blood."

"But there was" Wilson comforted, thinking back to how hastily House had rushed from his office earlier, hungry with the desire to save the life that his mistakes had nearly claimed. He recalled the distress in Cameron's face, the determination in Foreman's, this unparalleled desire for Chase to live. Chase dying had never truly been an option. Strengthened by his personal recollection, Wilson continued with his explanation, hoping that the news didn't distress Chase any worse that he already had been. "House was a match. You did almost die, but he was there to give you the blood that you needed."

Silence filled the air, as thick as impenetrable fog. The shock was back on Chase's face, a mask of disbelief and confusion overwhelming his sorrow. To the man lying in the bed, the words must have had the same effect as a sudden exposure to bitter winds, to a bath of ice, something of intensely unpleasant, but at the same time, just as surprising.

"House?" Chase choked out, as though the word stuck on his tongue. Wilson nodded, wishing that he had some proof to provide. Though it would have been just as well to have the diagnostician there to confirm the truth with his own words, House had practically disappeared, and it was that man who had almost allowed Chase to claim his own life in the first place. For now, the value Wilson put in his own words would have to sustain Chase for the time being.

"Yes, Doctor Gregory House. Without his blood, you wouldn't be here. But it doesn't matter how we saved you. All that matters is that we did." These words might as well have been nothing more than empty air as Chase stared past where Wilson sat, eyes unfocused. Words that would have comforted anyone else, words that provided an anchor to reality, all but dissipated into thin air.

"House saved my life" he whispered, disbelief still taking over, pushing Chase's mind past the brink where he had any reconciliation for himself. "I'll be damned. He almost let me go, finally, him of all people, and then he had to steal back what he gave me. I have House's blood in my heart right now. He had his knife in my throat, and now I have his blood in my veins. I can't get away from him now, can I? He's here, he's with me, and he saved my life."

Those words had barely escaped his lips before he started shaking again, eyes welling with tears. Wilson couldn't identify whether the emotions were sadness, anger, or shock, but whatever the case, Chase was rapidly spiraling downwards. His head went back and his the pillow, his arms straining against his bonds, almost as though he were seizing.

"No no no" Chase was muttering beneath his breath, and even as Wilson tried to still him with a gentle hand on his arm, Chase only pulled harder, deep in the throes of an attack that Wilson couldn't identify. This was when the oncologist finally relented, and gave into his concern for Chase's health. As he called for a nurse to come to his aid, he kept a gentle hand resting on Chase's arm, hoping that the contact would somehow bring the doctor back to his senses, take away his agony, but nothing eased Chase's suffering until a needle full of sedatives was slipped into his arm. The look in Chase's blue eyes was wild and fearful as the drugs began to pull him under again, and Wilson realized with despair that there was no familiarity to be found in those eyes. Those blue eyes were the color of a poisoned sea, a sea that had no hope, no life left inside. The brilliant sky and laughter and light that had once filled them was utterly extinguished. There was relief when those empty eyes finally shut, hiding the hollow shell that it seemed Chase had become.

Minutes later Chase was utterly still again, pale as death, but the bandages even more pale around his neck as a reminder just how desperately the intensivist wanted to flee the world of the living. Hope was still fleeting outside of his reach, and Wilson desired nothing more than to rekindle the flame of life deep within Chase's heart, no matter what it took.

 **Thank you all so much for reading! I sincerely appreciate every follow, favorite, and review I receive on this story, especially the continued support. I hope my writing does nothing but improve (and of course, be enjoyable to you). I am extremely open to any comments, questions, or critique that you might hold on my work- feel free to drop a review or leave me a PM. Thanks so much again, and I hope to be updating soon!**


	12. Chapter 12

"C'mon House, pick up" Wilson muttered beneath his breath, the phone pressed to his ear with sweat-soaked palms, unable to hide the anxious anticipation. Nothing but ringing followed the whispered wishes, just as had been the result for the entire morning, and the entire night before. House was just gone. Not at his home, not at the hospital, not at any of the bars that he tended to frequent when his mind was in turmoil. There had been not so much as a word from Cameron or Foreman regarding the location of their boss, no comments from any other staff member in the hospital. It was as though the diagnostician had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Eventually, after what must have been another of the shrill ringing, Wilson snapped the phone shut and threw it onto his desk in a display of utter surrender. Shoving his hands into his face, Wilson pressed against his eyes with his fingers until he could see stars. It was all he could do to stifle the groans of frustration from escaping his mouth. There was nothing that the oncologist could feel aside from pain and frustration. The situation was quickly spiraling out of control, more and more so with each revolution of the hands on the clock. A deep and resonating fear in his gut whispered that it was far too late to get a solid grasp on his world ever again.

All that he had known and believed in had been shattered by the events of the past few days. Not just his views of Chase, of each action that the man had performed, but of House. The diagnostician was not known to be particularly kind or tactful, and it was not completely uncommon for him to toy with the lives of others as though they held no value. But to see House acting as such with someone that he so clearly valued, Wilson had a hard time feeling anything except for shock and confusion.

But there was no way now to remedy the wounds that House had torn open so ruthlessly. The blue-eyed man was gone, Chase was nearly dead, and House's two other employees were missing in action. No one that he needed to speak to were returning his phone calls, and he was already dreading the inevitable confrontation with Cuddy that would seek him out in a matter of hours.

Word of Chase's suicide attempt had already spread around the hospital, and as involved as Cuddy was in the daily affairs of House and his fellows, Wilson was surprised she hadn't already made an appearance in his office. But just as he was pondering this curiosity, it seemed as though his curiosity would serve to be sated incredibly quickly. A harsh knocking came on his door, and it swung open, Cuddy storming in angrily. The clicks of her heels against the floor snapped his eyes to her, and every part of her body screamed for his undivided attention.

Wilson sat up straight at her dramatic entrance, staring at her with eyes wide from surprise. She appeared genuinely angry, filled with rage, a word that could rarely be used to describe the unshakable dead of medicine. Yet every part of her body language spoke true to Wilson's initial observation. Her legs were set squarely apart at shoulder length, and her arms were crossed against her chest. Her head was tilted down ever so slightly, and her eyes seemed to burn as she bore holes through Wilson's skull. Any doubts of her anger were completely vanquished as she spoke, the tone of her words nearly reaching a yell.

"Do you have any idea where House is? He nearly kills one of my best employees, and then he goes and disappears without so much as a word! He didn't even come to me with this, didn't let me know he had just about killed a man. I had to find out about Chase ending up in the psych ward from one of the nurses that couldn't stop running her mouth, and no one thought it important to tell me that House nearly killed someone. I didn't even know until I found Cameron crying in House's office like the world was about to end. Would you like to tell me what's going on? And I mean really tell me, the whole situation, just how far down this ship has sunk. What is happening?" she asked in exasperation, throwing her hands up into the air.

Wilson shrunk back, wincing while he squinted his eyes against her wrath, however justified it was. The fiery dean of medicine deserved to know just what was going on in her hospital, but at the same time, it must have been general knowledge that these proceedings would have upset her greatly. That meant in no uncertain terms that it was unwise to keep the occurrences from her, but it wasn't completely illogical. But she would have found out sooner or later, no matter what anyone could have done. Chase's brush with death was simply something that could not be ignored. Stumbling to find the words, Wilson pieced together a hesitant reply. "I'm sorry, I have no clue where he is. He isn't answering any of my calls, and he wasn't answering Cameron's when she was here. I haven't seen him since he left the office yesterday. His car isn't here, and he hasn't been at his house either. I haven't seen Cameron or Foreman since they left yesterday" he replied in a shaky voice, and Cuddy crossed her arms once again, seemingly unsatisfied at this mediocre response.

"I guess you think this is a game, is that it? That's why you just decided to ignore the rest of everything I said, what I said about everything falling apart right in front of me. Chase, Cameron, House, and now not even you capable of letting me know the full truth. It's because you're in the middle of this too, isn't it?" she demanded, just as difficult as ever. Wilson swallowed, knowing that there was no way he could deny a truth so blatant, but at the same time, not appreciating how the words were skewed against him.

"It's not like that" he started, beginning with his defensive tactics. "It's not like there's a situation you've dealt with before, not even close. I know that you're upset with everything, everyone in the hospital is. But this isn't like something stupid House has done for attention, it's like nothing he's ever done, and it wasn't done because of how he usually is. More importantly, it's like nothing we've ever faced before. I'm the one that found out Chase was hurting himself, and I'm the one that put him in the psych ward. So I guess you could say that yes, I'm in the middle of this. But House never meant to hurt him, and neither did I. No one saw this coming, not even me, not Cameron, not Foreman, not House."

"No shit" Cuddy muttered under his breath, taking Wilson aback at the uncharacteristic expression of exasperation and defeat. He could feel his brows pinching inwards in surprise, at which point her anger melted away, and she shut the door behind herself before collapsing into the chair in front of Wilson's desk, as though she were a crumpled flower, depraved of sunlight.

"I just can't believe it" she whispered in a hoarse tone, looking up at Wilson with eyes that were suddenly watering, rimmed in red and liquid fear. "It's not just about what House did. It's about Chase. God, we almost lost him. He almost killed himself. I didn't see it coming, you're right, no one did. And House, god that lunatic took a knife into the psych ward. Who does that? It almost lost me our best surgeon, a brilliant doctor, and a wonderful young man."

"I know" Wilson answered, face drawn to a solemn visage as she revealed her woes to him. It was truly a brilliant display of intense vulnerability. Cuddy rarely showed weakness, her days back-to-back with activity after activity, and her endurance for dealing with House never-ending. It was as though the woman were a supernatural being, capable of bearing any task, any hardship. But it seemed that today she had met her match, finally reached the point of despair and exhaustion.

"I need to find House" she hissed suddenly, shaking her head with a slight resurgence of anger. It took a moments pause before she continued, obviously fighting to keep her voice low. "I need to find him, just to let him know that I don't want him setting foot in this hospital until I decide if he can, and that he's to go nowhere near Chase. There's no way he's getting anywhere close to this place until I'm much less angry with him."

Swallowing, Wilson looked up at Cuddy, a thought screaming in his mind. He had been trying to suppress it, but as he watched her talk with such raw emotion, he realized that he couldn't keep it to himself any longer. Nothing could stop him from blurting out the words as they came to his tongue, the only rationalization for the events, and possibly one of the only things that could ease the emotions that had most obviously overwhelmed the woman sitting before him.

"All you know is the bare facts about what happened with Chase and House in that room, but that's a bit far from the whole story. Everything House did, he had done it to try and save Chase, try to convince him that his life was valuable and worth living. The knife was supposed to be nothing more than a prop. He never wanted to hurt Chase. He wanted to show that he cared, and he didn't know another way, other than being House. That meant talking to him like a lunatic, it meant cruelty, and it meant showing a part of himself that Chase hadn't seen before. It just happened that this time, Chase didn't want saving, and no matter how much House cared, what he tried just didn't work.

"And I think that if we ever want Chase to get better, House has to be the one to be there for him. There's not going to be another way. This isn't a with-or-without. Chase will not heal if we do not bring House back for him."

 **Thank you all so much for reading! It means so much to me that so many of you have stuck with me for so far into this story. A serious thank you to all of those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. Your kind words really mean the world to me! I apologize for how long it took to post this chapter, and I promise, I'll get to updating this one as soon as possible. Thanks again for the continued support, and I hope you enjoyed reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

The cold bit into House's skin with a furious intensity, but he still stood passive on the patio, as though the fangs of winter had no hold on him. He was shaking ever so slightly, though he had discovered by now there was nothing he could do to remedy that. It was not from the cold, which was a sensation that could at least be amended. Drugs hadn't dulled the memories that were now emblazoned in his mind in bright neon lights, the sensation of the blood that had washed across his hands as warm as life itself. Those were feelings that he could not rid himself of, feelings which had led him to have tremors through his body, a shaking that refused to cease.

Despite this interruption to his normally broken functioning, he was still able to stand. The pain in his leg was as present as ever, biting into his thigh with the fury of all wrath, but he knew for a fact that he would be able to seek respite soon enough. The sun had left just a whisper of hope in the sky, promising to rise within the hour. For now, the sky was stained with hints of red and orange, just enough to light the way for those rising so early to work, a hundred cogs in the machine lead by the blood leaking from the heavens. Wilson was always one of them, in his office and tucked away from the outside world before brilliant white light made its way across the earth. The charming oncologist evaded this gentle kiss from the most wonderful star religiously, a star that had yet to light the way for all of mankind across the cold bricks of the hospital. This meant that House's friend would be arriving within minutes, turning on the lights to his office, and parting the shade that kept the indoors so secluded from the world that lay beyond.

And as always, House's estimation served to be incredibly precise. The lights beyond those shades turned on with a warm yellow glow, providing a bright contrast to the dull pre-dawn that enveloped his body. It was because of this new light seeping through the cracks that he could more clearly see the breath that left his mouth, the white mist drifting up towards the heaven without so much as a cry of lament. But House paid no mind to such trivial things, limping forward at a pace that brought about a recollection of an awkward stutter. But still he made his way to the glass door he had stood outside of so many times, and tapped his cane against the glass, an incessant pace that spoke of unrelenting urgency.

Holding true to his tried-and-true nature, Wilson was tearing open the shades in a matter of seconds, letting that passive light flood over his body. House knew from the start that he was anything but welcome here, that he was just as well a trespasser. The tight lines, the pinched brow of Wilson's face told him all that he needed to know without so much as a word. He was no welcome here at the hospital, not after his crimes against Chase, and against all of the people who loved the blonde so dearly. Though it was not as though he expected a different result, House was wounded deep within, as he always was by Wilson's anger. Yet instead of outright denial of access into Wilson's space, the oncologist relented, sliding the glass door open and allowing House to make his way in, however begrudging this action may have been.

By the subtle sound of vibrating glass coming from behind him, House knew that Wilson was anything but happy. The shades were just as soon shut again, hiding the patio from view, sealing the office off once more. It took mere moments for Wilson to stand in front of House, arms crossed like a disappointed mother ready to yell, his posture as jarring and rigid as stone. In fact, the tone of his voice only differed in volume from a deafening yell- each word still had a scalding and piercing effect, however hushed they might have been.

"What are you doing here? You know that you shouldn't be here, and Cuddy wants your head. If she finds out you're here, then you're dead. We're both dead" he hissed beneath his breath, and at this, House hung his head in a silent confession of shame. He was more than aware of the weight that he had put on all of those that were close to him, not just Chase, but Wilson and Cuddy and the rest of the hospital staff. His actions had been careless, and Wilson's words stung, but not so much he couldn't spit out one of the replies that he had spent the night formulating, though the delivery was a bit rough.

"I know, I know you're upset. You can chastise me all you want later. I actually came here with some things I thought you could use. For Chase" he managed to speak beneath his breath, using his left hand to dig into the inner pocket of his jacket. His eyes flickered to the ground as he did so, embarrassed by his admission that he had in fact done something for the intensivist, a blatant act of kindness. Of course he had- it was his fault that Chase had nearly died, and the guilt had been slowly eating him alive. Once his fingers brushed against the papers he had stowed away, he yanked them out, and tossed them onto Wilson's desk.

"Research" he explained pitifully, staring at the wrinkled paper instead of Wilson's piercing eyes, pupils that seemed to act as daggers to his very soul. "I researched mental health facilities that would be better for him than this place. I don't know how long he'll need, but these places have the best care in three states. There's two that I found that seemed to be the best. I'd like him moved to one of these as soon as he's well enough. I'll cover all costs for his stay."

Thankfully, Wilson didn't say a cruel word to follow up this explanation. Instead, he moved over to the desk where House had placed the papers, and took them in his hand, looking them over with a gaze that appeared thoughtful, though still slightly irked. But to House's surprise, it was only about five seconds later that Wilson threw them back on the desk, shaking his head angrily, as though the mere mention of additional assistance was enough to send him into a fit.

"You don't get it, do you?" his friend asked, his tone displaying a potent combination of disgust and apathy. At what exactly these feelings were directed, House didn't know. In fact, his heart dropped at the sound of such anger, however soft the words may have been.

"What's wrong?" House asked, trying to hide how wounded he was at the way his heartfelt efforts had been cast aside. He had truly put his heart into finding the two hospitals he thought would give Chase the best long-term recovery options, and he had felt nothing but truth as he had said he would pay for the entire experience. But it seemed that this was not enough to make Wilson somewhat at ease, as the oncologist was growing ever-more red in the face. The most unsettling aspect was how the brown-haired doctor managed to keep his voice level, despite becoming overwhelmed with a broad spectrum of emotions.

"He doesn't need some fancy hospital, or a whole team of doctors to psychoanalyze him. He doesn't need to be sent away from his friends for two years just so they can try and fix him. He doesn't need that. He needs us, House. He needs you" Wilson said softly, which was enough to make House freeze where he stood. The words felt like ice injected straight into his blood, the essence of his life becoming stone within his heart, compressing his chest and making it hard to draw a breath.

"What do you mean?" he asked, the words coming off his tongue as though they were as heavy as lead. In fact, they were hard to form on his tongue, words that did not wish to escape past parted lips. They were so foreign to him, not just the words, but the thoughts associated with them. What Wilson was suggesting was nearly unbelievable in the world that House had made for himself, a reality where feelings were a useless nuisance, just as lethal as a disease if left to fester.

"You know exactly what I mean, House" Wilson spit, throwing the papers that House had bothered to print onto the floor, discarding them as though they were trash. "You know what I mean, and you're just too much of a bastard to admit that maybe, just maybe, you have feelings. And that sometimes, it's okay for other people to feel something about you too. You know that Chase needs you here. He needs to talk to you."

"The hell he does!" House retorted, his face pinching up tightly under the stress, the desperation to escape the situation. "I'm the one who almost killed him. I'm the reason he's stuck here"

"That's not true" Wilson interjected sharply, his face still contorted into a visage of anger. "The only one who almost killed Chase was Chase. You didn't see what I saw. You didn't see him with his chest cut open like he was some piece of meat. You didn't have to patch up cuts deep enough to put your finger in. You weren't there. Let me tell you, I think he would have tried to kill himself if you handed him that knife or not. He was miserable, he was suffering, and he wanted out. How can you blame him for that? How can you blame yourself?"

"Because it was my negligence that let him get so far" House whispered back, leaning heavily on his cane before stumbling to the chair in front of Wilson's desk. Realizing that his own body was about to fail in the task of supporting his frame, he tried to allow the leather to interrupt his fall to the ground. He collapsed into the cushioned surface, and rubbed his thigh with his right hand, trying to ease the pain by just a bit, just enough to speak the words that were caught in his throat like burrs. "I'm the reason he was so bad in the first place. If I had done something, if I had so much as cared-"

"But that's not you, House" Wilson cut in once more, halting House in his tracks. "No one expected you to act any differently, much less Chase. This isn't because of you. No one noticed anything was wrong, at least, nowhere near as bad as it was. Not Cameron, not Foreman, not me. You aren't above not knowing those things. All I know is that his sadness, his pain, that is not your fault. It's no one's fault. Sometimes people get sad, sometimes people want to die, and we don't always know why" he finished, sadly, staring at the desk with a hollow expression in his eyes, as though the light had been stolen from their earthen depths. House followed suit, tracing over the grain of the wood with his eyes, as though they were the rolling waves of an ocean of agony. He knew that Wilson spoke the truth, that there was no set formula for suicidal intent. Sometimes it was obvious, and sometimes it struck clear out of nowhere, leaving nothing but shock and mourning in the wake.

"I just wish I had been able to help" House admitted as sudden moment of weakness washed over him, leaving him unable to filter the first words that came to his tongue. He was still unable to meet Wilson's eyes as he said this, a confession with incredible intent. Silence spanned between them for a few moments before Wilson spoke again, his tone still soft, as though he were now playing a comforting role. Once more he had assumed the position of mothering, this time as the warm arms to run home to.

"It's not too late, House. He needs to be surrounded by his friends, he needs that, not some facility where he's a number on a chart. You're someone that he looks up to, someone that matters to him. If you're there for him, it would make incredible worlds of difference. I'm positive."

To this, silence fell once more, like a suffocating blanket of darkness and thought that was thick enough to drown out the rest of the world. House couldn't imagine what in the world he could possibly say, how he could respond without exposing himself like a wounded child. Exposing how much his heart was aching at the thought of Chase's brush with death, that would be a drastic self-incrimination. He could not bear to imagine sitting by the bedside of his employee, looking at the pale and ashen face, coming up with words that could coax a man from the edge of a cliff.

Did he really mean that much to Chase? Was there any possible way that he, a broken and crippled man, could save a life? Not a life saved by medicine, by chemicals being pumped into a bloodstream, by incisions and by transplants, but by genuine human emotion. Was there any way that he could perhaps repair something so broke, so lost, when he felt himself to be just as damaged?

There was no way he could know until he tried.

"If you think you can sneak me into the psych ward again, get me past Cuddy, and into Chase's room, I'll talk with him. If this is the only thing that you think will work, and I mean the only thing, I'll do it. Not for you. Not for me. For Chase. He's a damn good doctor. It would be a shame to lose him, I was hoping to keep him around for at least a little longer."

Wilson smiled, and House felt sick to his stomach at the thought that Wilson had seen so easily through his cold facade. Despite the pride that Wilson had on his face, the thin smile painted over his lips, House could see the sorrow tainting his friend's brown eyes. He knew that it was disappointment and agony over this whole sorry state of affairs, perhaps over the reluctance with which House was acting. But there was nothing he could do to change the past now. All that he had was the future- not just his own future, but Chase's. A future of pain and of trial, but it was a future as long as Chase's heart was still beating.

 _Anything to save him_ , House thought as he stood, limping towards the door with an unusually strong sense of purpse. _Anything in the world._

 **Thank you all so much for reading! A big thanks to all of those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. Your undying support means the world and more to me. I hope to be bringing you an update to this story soon! I hope that you enjoyed, and I can't wait to bring you the next installment of this story. If you have any questions, comments, or critique, as always, feel free to shoot me a PM or drop a review. Thanks again!**


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